


The Stars Fall Like Feathers

by Blackbird_Wings



Series: Stars Fall [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alt S6, Canon verse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Castiel, Oh and Castiel gets a lapdog, Sam has his soul, Whump, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 156,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1851409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackbird_Wings/pseuds/Blackbird_Wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alt S6. Dean's driving down the road that leads to the rest of his life, safe and broken with the Braedens. But Castiel's got other plans; with Sam back in action, Raphael on the war path, and a spontaneous resurrection. Team Free Will have to deal with a puppy, witches, wings, injuries and an international road trip to save world all over again. Featuring Winged!Cas and Whump!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Lighters and Floodlights

**Author's Note:**

> This story is effectively FINISHED (Took me like a whole freaking year because I'm a lazy butt). Only the later chapters need editing, but it's already actually written. I'll upload two chapters each week on Thursdays and Sundays. :)
> 
> This can be read as slight Destiel or a pre-slash. Trust me, if I could write it, it'd be in here.

Of the many hundreds and thousands of lore books that describe angels in their passages, noting down their traits or supposed hierarchical structures, it can safely be said that every single one is incorrect.

Angels of God are not entirely fearless, not in the way ancient texts pronounce as boldly as they do.

To an angel, nothing in creation compares to the flat terror of Holy Fire. It's a closely guarded secret, the host containing the weakness from their enemies for further fear of being at it's mercy in battle. Every single angel that has ever lived has an internal, instinctual terror of Holy Oil and the devastating effects it brings when struck to fire and being used as a weapon. It's an unbearable torture, and the fear instilled into them was for good measure.

Though not much compares to this fear. There is something that comes close.

Hell fire.

Leagues beneath the surface of Hell, the very air itself twists and pulls around everything like a living entity, consuming all in its path like a pungent breath of pure poisonous sulphur. There's nothing like it, absolutely nothing. Black and all encompassing, mercilessly swallowing up all light and emotions, bar those of an animalistic fury that seemed to lurk in the bottom of a person's soul.

It's an enormous, cavernous place. Brimstone lining the burning walls, the only other light except the dreaded flames licking from their pits. Black mountains of colossal size rise up, chains of the damned littering the peaks and everywhere between like discarded pieces of human rubbish. It's a maze, the land broken into levels of jagged rock. Each plunge to a new depth slowly crossing the gap to the bottom of the pit.

It's into this filthy, evil place that a breach occurs.

The very atmosphere rips and tears at him as he plunges deeper into this forsaken place of ruined creatures. His bright light, his roaring essence, his _everything;_ is being pulled and dragged at from all angles, little fragments of himself being scratched away from his core, the beating of his wings being made to bare greater burdens with every heavy flap.

This place. It was hateful, crushing, stifling.

It's _evil_. And every instant that he's here is tearing him to pieces. This is not the land of his brethren. This is a place for the unholy, the sinful, the evil. The damned. He doesn't belong here, his being is pure and opposite in nature to all that's here. It's killing him.

But none of that matters; the ripping of his light, the weeping battle wounds littering him, the crushing exhaustion darkening his blaze.

None of it.

Because he's here for a reason, his own desire propelling his wing beats further down into the abyss. This place is swallowing him whole, but he will die before he turns back. Let it try. He has a purpose.

This was _his_ choice. Not God's. Not Hells. Not Heavens.

 _His_.

Angels are not fearless. But they _are_ warriors.

It aches that his once unflinching faith in God is no longer impenetrable to doubt, no longer gives him buoyancy and direction. It's a festering wound that had surrounded him these past few months, infecting him like a virus and testing his resolve with every conscious action. His faith was still there, but meeker than it had been before, shaken by a force like an earthquake to a building. Damaged but still standing. It needed repair. Some loving input from somebody who cared enough to patch up the created fissures and soothe the cracks in his faiths foundations. But, from what he's just witnessed on Earth, he's beginning to doubt that such a thing could ever occur again.

But he will not fail. He _will_ not. Exhaustion, injury, fear, all of it be damned like the rest of this world trying to enclose him.

Pushing himself harder, the light descends into the bowels of this deep place, constantly pitching away from the screeching demons that are trying to pierce into his light like venomous snake bites. Many of the putrid beings flee before him, terrified by the force and sheer _Willpower_ that's flooding into the darkness from his radiance, smothering the glow of the hated Hell fire with a shine that makes even the brightest star look dull and empty.

It's absolute. Holy.

The brave or the stupid risk themselves to propel towards him as he crashes through their dark haven with cataclysmic force. Weaker ones are incinerated as they approach, the strongest meet his blade, cut down before they can deal a fatal injury. He has no time for them, an angel is a prize above all others for the demons of this pit, and they can't have it. He has to retrieve something first, or die trying.

Days pass, sliding into one another without end or notice. The further down he plunges, the denser the black cloud seems to pool around him, constricting him, choking his power and attacking him desperately; with such raw fury that even the Morning Star himself would be impressed by his creations.

He's never known that his wings could hurt so much, exhaustion rippling through him like a wave on the shore, every beat taking away more of his strength. Leaving him weak and fading. But his will doesn't waver, he's taken a vow since he first started falling. Never again will something touch his willpower, never will he let someone bend his freedom. Never. He is no hammer, he is an _angel_. Not a creature shackled by blind obedience.

He is so much stronger than the last time he set foot in this evil place, _oh_ how long ago that seems. It's a strange feeling for a creature as old as himself; but the last time feels so, so distant. He remembers it so well, the garrison a constant roar at his back, wingtips brushing against allies. A blinding streak across Hell's skies. Pouring into the deep like a floodlight into the night. It had been terrifying and exhilarating, a display of force and power such as the like hasn't been seen for thousands of years.

And this time is so much harder.

It 's just him, panting and fighting through the dark. His brothers and sisters having no idea of his intentions. He's utterly alone, no rest, no respite. Just the vile creatures that would do him harm and the willpower, loyalty and courage as his weapons to help drive him downwards. His target this time is far, far deeper than the last, and despite his shocking new level of revived Seraphim power, he will be lucky to ever see the light of Heaven again, or blessed enough to see the sky and stars and feel the serenity of wind through his feathers. But he will try anyway, there is no worthier cause in his mind than this to die for.

He wants to do this. It's his choice, his _freewill_.

He's the only angel left alive qualified to be a part of the renowned Team Free Will.

And the Team is currently a member down.

It doesn't matter to him that this decision was partially influenced by another being. He wants his friend to be happy, wants it so much it aches through him with every instant that passes separated from his side as the angel closes down to his target. _God_ knows, that if anyone deserves a happy ending to this catastrophic apocalypse, then it is Dean Winchester. And the angel will do anything to give it to him, will fight through everything.

Even invading Hell and taking on its armies by himself.

But _oh, it hurts_.

The blackness circles him menacingly as he falls ever lower, like he's the eye of a dark storm, the peace at the centre of destruction, capable of engulfing entire civilisations. It's thick and suffocating, too many hits not being able to be dodged, too many creatures to kill them all, but he pushes through. He's chosen his timing well, though it would be more fair to say that it's been more luck that has lead him this far.

The entirety of Hell is a mass of smoking chaos. Demons fighting amongst themselves as they try to overthrow each other, battling for kingship, warring for power. Thunderstorms that are not entirely his own doing rain lighting down from the darkness above him, earthquakes violently giving the mountains cause to tremble. And he couldn't be more pleased about this. Their distraction has had his break-in throw even more confusion into their chaos, and the blinding light of his power had them confuse him for another Heavenly host, and many of them scream and scatter.

Smashing through the shrieking ranks of demons, he follows his senses to the only other tiny glimpse of light in this foul pit. Despite the thick, cloaking layers of Hell-spawn; Sam Winchester's soul, although agonisingly polluted, is just about still there. Muffled crushingly by the evil separating them. He can _feel_ it. It's not the glaring star of torn energy that had been Dean Winchester's righteous soul, but there's still a purity to it, the type that had made the angel fall in love with his Father's creations in the first place. It was dim and faint, but beautiful and wonderfully human. The angel will not leave it here alone. He will _save_ it, or die trying.

After all, hadn't that been the last thing God had entrusted the angels to do? Protect the humans?

Not that that matters at all. The angel is doing this for himself and his friends, his make-shift, broken little human family. Not his _Father_. Not for _Heaven_.

Delving deeper still, the angel pants in blessed relief, even despite the fury that greets him as he closes in on the famed Cage. He's here, finally, after just over a hundred days of constant fighting. This above all other parts of this suicide mission is most likely to kill him. But at least there's a slight reprieve outside the jaws of Lucifer's himself abode. Even the strongest demons were too scared to penetrate this far into the pit, and as he as blazes towards it's confines he accepts that if this was how he ends his life, he is at peace with it.

The whole thing happens in less than an instant, even by Hell's screwed up time-lines. The angel's true voice rips its way through the area as a roared war cry. _I am here. I am power._ _Do not challenge me_. It's a warning to all of the depths of Hell, the noise raking its way all the way up to the breached entry point and through the blazing walls of the cage. Archangels be damned. He is coming through and they _will not interfere._

The noise had barely begun to echo as he tears his way through the cage wall, it was designed to hold _Archangels_ not _Seraphim,_ and he shoots through it like a cascading flood of fire and ice, the jagged edges of the walls raking nastily down his Grace. His older brothers' powers scream towards him, but they are hesitant, confused, they do not recognise this _Seraph_ as him. He could be their salvation, their rescue. He could be here for them.

Fools.

The Seraph's grace thunders to the cowering, tortured, Winchester soul in the encasement and barrels straight into it. Propelling them both screaming from the Cage's confines; keeping the wall from killing the soul swallows up the most power that the angel has ever expelled at one time in his entire life.

Cradling the delicate thing to his Grace the angel and his charge smash into the surrounding ragged brimstone slabs just as the Cage walls shake violently at the impacts of his brothers' wrath; they've realised their deceit, screaming betrayal and death to the angel that's leaving them behind. Agonised, but flooded with relief, the angel gently brushes the human's soul with his aching wings. Delicately healing it, physically and mentally, as best as he can. He's deeply mournful that Adam was left behind, but to take both would be to kill all three of them, the angel wouldn't survive the Cage wall twice.

The enormity of what he's done crashes down on him like an oceanic Rogue Wave; he's breached The Cage, _The Cage._ With his quarry still alive. Trembling and weary, but alive, _alive and safe_.

Despite the small thing he's cradling carefully, he doesn't become hopeful of success. The rescue has injured him with greater severity than he was hoping. His wings are suddenly heavier than Heaven itself, his Grace exhausted, his power waning like a mewling kitten. Fatigue rushes him all at once and despite the earth shattering screams of fury at his back, the angel can't find the strength to take off. Utterly spent, paralysed by enervation.

The tiny creature huddled against his depleted warmth suddenly burrows closer, it doesn't understand who he is, or that he has been trying to save him, but even the small spark of the once encompassing light of the angel's Grace is a soothing blanket to the torture of the human's soul. And even as the angel watches on, the human's once polluted soul begins to clear, becoming brighter and gentle. Healing.

The angel smiles, his Grace brightening. Dean Winchester had been struck with the heart of his Grace and thus had unintentionally been branded at the same time. The angel had been younger, and weaker then, but the Righteous man's soul had latched onto him at that moment in a way that his younger brother was not doing.

If they escaped from this evil land, Sam Winchester will not have the same connection to the angel as his older brother. The angel was more careful this time, and Sam's soul is not as potent against his Grace as Dean's had been.

But there is something inexplicably gentle about it. Soft and soothing, and it sighs against him, relaxing as if it can finally rest from the torture. Ignorant of the return trip the angel no longer has the strength to make. His whole mortal life up until this point has been filled with agony, but now it's finally all over and the Grace protecting him is hushing his pains like a fire on a cold winter night. It's relief and surrender at it's purist. The angel feels a raging surge of protectiveness flare inside of him.

This is part of what was his new family. The angel is the boy's only saving grace, if he fails now; they will both be tortured for eternity. And Sam doesn't deserve that. _God,_ Sam doesn't deserve that. Something scalding and immense blinds the angel all at once, determination flooding his centre like a dam has burst through his light.

A second grating roar leaves the angel, resounding through the abyss like a hundred thunder-claps.

_I am coming._

_I am your end_.

_This soul is **mine**._

His warning seems to shake the foundations of Hell itself, rippling its way through the demonic ranks as the angel launches itself upwards, instinctive need to protect the human powering his wing beats from the burning floor. The demons pooling above the cage scatter at the angel's ire, terrified of the sudden tinge of _danger_ licking in the angel's Grace, a new form of Holy Fire.

The call of warning was not completely heeded, and as he heads through the racks of the tortured, where he had once grabbed the Righteous Man himself, demons flood him.

The human shielded beneath his Grace bucks violently at the demonic presences rushing them, and the angel explodes his power outwards in response, the nearest demons screaming as they are engulfed and destroyed. Distracting the others, the angel pushes on, desperation beginning to infiltrate his determination, there's barely anything left he has to give. Seraphim or not. He is an angel alone in Hell.

Pain. Pain everywhere. Absolute and agonising, choking his light and triggering falters in his flight. Every single wing twitch and sword swing has the raging burn of exhaustion rocketing through him as he forces his wings to continue their beating movements. Finding some solace in getting the beats to match the human's delicate heart beats. The boy's salvation was weakening, and the Winchester seemed to feel it, his now clean soul brushing against the angel's Grace, the two energies, for a single moment in time, harmonising. The angel's Grace ignites like it's been struck by Heaven's lightning.

It feels like a violent whip strike, lashing the angel viciously with a sense of purpose and new determination, and it powers his strength across the blending time to reach the breach he made to break his way into this accursed place so long ago. And as he does so, the demons underneath bellow and howl, the _pure_ creature was escaping with their father's downfall. Shrieks of mourning and vengeance boom through the angel's essence like poison.

The tortured wails continue to bay against the angel's senses as he hurtles through the dimensions, crashing back onto Earth with the force and violence of a meteor impact, and, with a mighty lunge, he throws the Soul and body of Sam Winchester to the only safe place he knows. Echoing a message into the immediate area surrounded the newly resurrected Soul.

_Sam Winchester is saved_

This time there's no cheering army of victorious soldier's to welcome his return with a Winchester Soul, no praise, no honour. And as Castiel clambers back into his vessel, heavy, injured and exhausted beyond all measure, he lets himself sigh with weary triumph and relief. And then falls into oblivion.

There is no ulterior motive behind this, not destiny, not fate.

Just a battered angel's Free Will.


	2. A Promise Dissolved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's gone and there's no way that's Dean's ever going to be able to cope.

\--

If you need to know how it feels to lose the only remaining member of your tiny, broken little family, the simplest way to explain is this; it's like slowly being torn in half.

Every breath, every instant; crushing agony.

Almost thirty years of constant, crippling emotional turmoil of the Winchesters' fucked up lives, has nothing on the trauma that's currently flooding Dean Winchester's mind.

_“Break the cage.”_

_“Peace? Or freedom?”_

_“Promise me, Dean!”_

He felt like screaming, the pressure rising in his chest and crushing against his throat, the noise being growled out in an anguished grate. Every fibre of him was roaring. His entire existence revolved around keeping Sam safe.

_Keep Sammy Safe._

It's his job, his reason. It's _who_ he is.

Was.

His angered grip on the Impala's steering wheel was becoming perilously close to either drawing blood from his palms, or ripping the wheel from the steering column. The pain is an undeserved comfort, albeit a minuscule one; the only thing grounding him in the terrifying flood of life without Sam.

His little brother was in Hell. In _Hell_. With Lucifer and Michael, probably being torn apart for daring to do the goddamn right thing. Dean deserved far worse than this small pinprick of pain for letting _Sammy_ get trapped in Hell. How was he supposed to keep going? How the hell was he supposed to act like everything is okay?

The only thing keeping him from either turning around or smashing the Impala through the nearest bridge barrier is Lisa.

'Just, get to Lisa, get to Lisa, get to Lisa, get to Lisa.' It's a mantra in his head. If he thinks about it enough, claws at it with everything thing he has left, maybe he can let the fact that he's obeying Sammy's final wishes soothe the raw torment of his mind. He made Sam a promise. He can't let Sammy down. Not again. Not after everything.

But he's so damn angry. Tears are running down his face despite how hard he's biting his cheek, God knows he's trying to stop. There is no one else around this time of night; Castiel had returned to Heaven, and he'd left Bobby's a few hours ago, though the elder hunter had practically begged him to stay the night. There is no one to criticise him or pick him a part for the weakness, but the tears' very presence feels like another step in the direction of failing Sam. His brother wanted him to be happy, regardless of whether or not Dean thinks he deserves it, and crying was not helping anything. It wasn't helping Sam.

But _damn_ it, this was his baby brother. They were Sam and Dean. Not just Sam. Not just Dean.

 _Sam and Dean._ The Winchester brothers, their titles infamous among the hunter world, summing up them in their entirety. Where one goes, the other follows. They were black and white, up and down, in and out. You couldn't have one without the other; they were a team, friends, brothers, _family_. You don't just leave family to rot in Hell while you carry on your miserable little life.

It's against everything that Dean is; and it is ripping him in half.

The anguish in the hunter's heart rose through him unbidden into a peak. Slamming his hand into the dashboard with a frustrated grunt, the car swerved as Dean momentarily lets his head fall under the unbearable weight of his thoughts. It's a near thing, the air is heavy with _'who the Hell would care_ ' before he raises his eyes again to correct his path on the empty road, missing the gravel ridge by scant inches.

He could care less if he died. Even Hell seemed less horrifying in his mind than before his brother had disappeared into the abyss. The idea to kill himself was still warring with the feeling to turn back to Bobby's and bust Sam from the cage, Lucifer and Michael be damned!

But he won't. He can't. Because he promised Sam he wouldn't. But this? It's not enough, it's never going to be enough.

_Get to Lisa, get to Lisa, get to Lisa._

The passenger side of the Impala's bench is empty, a frayed, limp box of cassettes on the foot well floor. Forgotten. The hunter almost heaves, breathing thickly through his nose. “I can't do this Sam...I, you can't ask me to do this.” This is too much. The world is too big, there's too much crushing pressure burning against his ribs, he can't just drive away. He can't just _do_ this.

There's a sudden chirp, a guitar rift echoing around the cold dark of the Impala's cabin. The noise of his cell phone echoes around him, interrupting the Winchester's thoughts so violently that he almost reaches over and throws it through the nearest window, open or closed. But he doesn't, Dean grits his teeth and ignores it, he can't get his hands to unlock around the Impala's steering wheel. It's sometime in the early morning and no one would be calling unless it was important. Hell, there are only two people on Heaven and Earth still with his number. One left him alone, and Dean drove away from the other.

Nothing is more important than Sam, and he was trapped in the pit. There's nothing that can get him to turn this car around. The hunter swallows, scrubs his eyes roughly on the shoulders of his green jacket, and stares flatly at the road.

The noise keeps going, rattling around Dean's brain. His nerves are shot to hell, and the Winchester's heart races with the tune, the beat slamming with smouldering anger. The sound quickly becomes symbolic of all of the human's hatred. Every raw, furious pang at the unfairness of it all, every touch of torment that his baby brother is in Hell, the fact that he is the _only Winchester left_. All of it, became that single phone's fault. While It's ringing he can imagine that the that damn phone is to blame for everything, it let Sammy get infected at six months old, let Yellow Eyes rip his family and it's future to shreds; it killed John and Pastor Jim and Jessica and Ellen and Jo. It killed Sam and made it so Dean had to go to Hell to save him. It drove Sam to drink Demon blood and trust Ruby. It tortured him and broke the first seal, It let Lucifer walk free, It had the angels turn on them, It raised the four horses and killed thousands of people. It began to slowly suck the Grace out of Castiel, disabled Bobby, brought on the Apocalypse.

It killed Castiel. It killed Bobby.

It trapped Sam in the Pit with Michael and Lucifer.

It is It's fault that God left in the first place and that things happened the way they did.

And, _It's not my fault._

And then, in the space of a millisecond, the phone stops ringing. The jolt of harsh silence startles him. Everything, every piece of guilt, slams its way back onto his shoulders with enough force to crush the soul and he isn't anywhere near strong enough to bear this weight. What the hell was he supposed to do? How can he go and pretend the world is okay at Lisa's? How can he leave Sammy in the cage? How can he just be _Dean?_

The misery hangs around him like a cloak, and he's fiercely glad that no one else is here to see him break into pieces. Then the cell rings again, the noise echoing around the too empty Impala and wrapping around him nervously.

This time, the sound seems desperate. It grinds against the hunter's instincts like a nail on a chalkboard. Screaming for his attention and not stopping now it has it. No one ever calls him twice unless something's dire.

He tries to ignore it, for Fuck's sake he can't do this right now!

Grinding his teeth, he growled in indecision, the urge to throw the stupid thing from his life more powerful than ever.

But he can't do it. There are only two people he has left.

Thundering a shout in his chest, Dean rips up the device as if it had done him personal harm. Paling as he reads Bobby flashing as the caller ID. The man had been insistent, near ordering the Winchester to stay at the salvage yard. Staring at Dean as if he was placing himself on suicide watch. He'd inwardly laughed that the other hunter was probably right. But there was no way he could stay, just being in South Dakota was unbearable. Him and Sam practically lived there. Every little thing triggered water falls of memories; the scuff along the library door from where they had been playing 'hunter' and Dean tripped against the skirting board and fell. The scratch on the guest bedroom window when they'd been chucking a ball and it'd hit the glass. Dean could still remember the sheer terror of watching the ball bounce off, praying that the glass would stay whole, and then the relief and laughter that had come when it did.

There was no way Bobby would call him right now. Dean had left to get away from the overpowering memories, Bobby hadn't been happy, but he'd understood.

Swallowing thickly, not trusting his voice, the Hunter snaps the phone open.

_Dean! Christ, Idgit! Are you tryin' a kill me!? Answer the damn phone, Boy!_

_Dean? Dean!?_

The Winchester's head span roughly, Bobby's voice was near hysteric, breaking with huffs of what Dean could only guess as exertion and panic. Swallowing hard again past the lump in his throat, he manages a small sound of acknowledgement, and even that small noise couldn't hide his pain.

Bobby doesn't seem to pause at the anguished sound and carried on the second he knew Dean to be listening.

_You get your hide back here now!_

Dean chokes on air, determined to get a grip on something, if only long enough to get the hell away from whatever disaster this phone call is turning into. “ _Fuck_ , Bobby! I can't do this right now.” It's weak and wavering, but it's the best he can do. He's just so tired of this.

_YOU GET HERE RIGHT NOW YOU IDGIT B'FORE I COME 'N' DRAG YOU BACK, YOU FEELIN' ME, BOY!?_

And then he hangs up.

Fucking hangs up.

Asshole.

The tone in the older hunter's voice had been his absolute grouchiest one. The _Follow Me Or You'll Die_ tone of voice that has Dean performing a U-turn before he's even realised what he's doing. Something was massively wrong, Bobby wouldn't call for anything right now.

The knot in his chest constricts until he finds it difficult to even breathe properly. Something must be wrong. It has to be. And he can't lose Bobby. Not again. Not after Sam. Not after he'd lost all three of his family members in the last 24 hours, and now that he has two, (sort of in Cas' case), back; he couldn't take losing them again. He was hanging on the edge already, anything else and he doesn't think he could do anything other than let go.

–

It takes nearly three hours of definitely less-than-legal speeds to screech into the Singer Salvage Yard. The night is beginning to pale into the dawn, and Dean is absolutely wrecked. He can't remember the last time he slept and the emotional and physical hell he's been through the last few days is making it so much worse. But he is Dean Winchester; he can fight whatever the hell is holing itself up at Bobby's half dead if it kept the older hunter safe.

Storming the front door with a small arsenal of the Colt, Ruby's knife, iron, salt, holy water, angel blade and anything else he could carry, the hunter stalks through the threshold and two steps into the hall before it becomes clear there is a distinct lack of damage and destruction. The furniture sitting untarnished where it usually lives.

A solid grip yanks on his shoulder from the side and tears him into the Library, Dean jerks away. “What did you _do,_ Dean?!” The unmistakable voice of Bobby roars into his eardrums even as his shotgun comes up on instinct. The older Hunter rolls his eyes in the time the exchange takes place and snatches the gun from the startled younger hunter before he could accidentally shoot him.

Bewildered and thoroughly fed up with absolutely everything in life, Dean spins to face Bobby with such an enraged look on his face that Bobby wisely gives the hunter a little more space. The kid is clearly reaching his limit, and Bobby makes a careful mental note to get any and all weapons off of him the first chance he gets. “Shit, Bobby! What the hell! I thought you were getting killed!”

Bobby raises his hand in the universal gesture of “Shut the fuck up” before he turns out of Dean's line of sight. “I know Dean, but I thought you might wanna see this.” He adds, and Dean becomes suspicious immediately. His tone is quiet and warily gentle. Bobby Singer doesn't do gentle. Then the older man gestures to the ratty sofa in the darkened corner of the room.

The sight wipes any and all thought from his mind in one smooth shot. It doesn't ring through to his brain for a moment or two. Then as it does, there's a horrific, terrified instant of thinking it's some hellish nightmare that he's trapped in, and when he blinks he'll be lying on the road side, thrown from the Impala by the car accident he's had in his misery.

But he blinks and nothing happens. He stops breathing altogether.

There, on the couch, covered in Bobby's thick old afghan blanket and sprawling across the cushions, is his moose of a Baby Brother.

His Sam.

The shout of his brother's name escapes his throat at a near shriek, though he later denies this until his dying day. “Sammy? _Sammy?!_ ” Rushing to the side of the couch, he takes in the wan pallor of his brother's skin and exhausted features on older brother auto pilot. The report of his brain acknowledges detachedly that all in all, his brother looks how he feels. But _Sam is here, Sam is here, Sam is here_. God that's more than enough for him. His brother doesn't stir at his voice immediately, but after another two pleads from and careful shakes, Sam's forehead crinkles. A small sound rumbles in his chest in protest at being disturbed, it sends Dean's brain into a freaked out panic, because Sam is here and that's the noise that Sam always makes when he doesn't want to get out of bed in the morning after pulling an all nighter in the library and holy shit this has to be a dream, _God let this be real._

Bobby crosses the room like a ghost, carefully easing Dean a step away from his brother. He takes in the Winchester's wide, panicked eyes and the unusual shine to them that threatens tears. “Easy, kid. Sam looks as wiped as you; I've done all the tests. It's _him_ , Dean. Now let him sleep.”

The reassurance of Bobby's voice and the firm grip on his arms shakes the Winchester back to his senses, and once there, Dean tries to calm his breathing. Bobby uses his sudden stillness to press a full tumbler of whiskey in his hand and shoves him into an armchair beside the couch. The tense knot in Dean's chest eases cautiously with every second he keeps his eyes on his brother. Wary that this is some sick trick.

How can this be real? How can he be here? _Here_. Not in the cage, not in Hell, not with...Lucifer...?

“Bobby?” His voice sounds pathetically shaky even to him. It will take him several days of grumbling to restore his pride back to full strength. “You...You sure that...It's not Lucifer?” It's physically painful to ask, like acid sitting in his throat. But terror raises his pulse, this might not be Sam, might not be his Sammy. It's unbearable. This has to be Sam, _it has to be Sam._

Bobby seems to take his poor reaction with remarkable levels of patience, having had a few hours to get used to the younger Winchester's sudden appearance. It is pretty obvious by now that Dean had no part in this resurrection. “I cut him with an angel blade when he first appeared, nothing. He was mumblin' about you earlier too, but he barely woke up. Now, I know that archangels might not react to the blade so stop staring at me like that, boy. This ain't Lucifer.”

Dean struggles to get out a calming breath, swallowing thickly afterwards. Concentration blooms across his face as he tries valiantly to organise his thoughts and put the raging questions into order. Christ, there's so much fucking relief rattling around his brain it's a bit hard to focus.

Eventually, his voice returns, steadier with a hunter's calm. It takes effort, but he gradually manages to tear his gaze away from his returned brother for a few seconds. “...'Appeared'?”

The older hunter nods grimly, gulping down his whiskey as Dean does the same. If there was ever a time for a little Hunter's Helper, then this is it. “I was just goin' up for the night when he just...appeared, sprawled all over my kitchen floor, unconscious. Scared the Bejesus outta me; 'nd just as I get to him, someone practically screamed in my head, couldn't tell ya who mind. Never heard anything like it before.”

Well, that sounded ten kinds of freakin' splendid. “Screamed what?” Dean asked, eyes narrow and suspicious.

Bobby paused, glancing back to Sam, before shrugging, ““Sam Winchester is Saved”, that was it.” Refilling his glass he considered the way Dean's face was taken over by confusion and wariness. “What?”

Dean looked back to his sleeping brother, looking remarkably healthy for someone who has just come back from Hell. “Anna told us right after I came back, before she went bat-shit insane, that the first words she heard on Angel-Radio was “Dean Winchester is Saved”.”

Bobby raises an eyebrow, coming to stand next to Dean to refill his glass. “You're thinkin' Angelic intervention? I dunno, Dean; I reckon most of Heaven probably hates us right about now.”

Pieces slot neatly into place in Dean's mind, and there's a whole two seconds of him just cursing himself stupid for being so damn blind to the obvious. He nearly slaps himself just for good measure as he stands, turning with a growl in his throat and aiming a glare at the ceiling. “Not all of it, Bobby.... Cas! Castiel you get your feathery ass down here now! _I swear to Christ,_ man! I am not fucking around! You had better hope to God you get here in the next fiv-”

A familiar flapping sound interrupts him, but there's a whole extra second of it, the beats strange and unbalanced. All of Dean's irate comments vanish the second the angel lands beside him. Castiel pitches to the right, staggering a step to catch his balance, still managing to get out his normal “ _Hello, Dean_ ” greeting despite the apparent unsteadiness on his feet.

“Shit, Cas!” Dean's anger flares more and more even as he takes a hurried step forwards to steady the angel by grabbing his arm. The hunter beats it down for a few moments; the angel looks absolutely wrecked, blue eyes somewhat dazed. He's trembling lightly under Dean's fingertips and the frayed sleeves of his trench coat. “The hell dude? You okay?”

Blinking, the Seraph seems to recover himself, nodding in answer. He doesn't attempt to shake Dean's grip and that is the biggest tell of all. “I am...fine. I think. I just...over reached myself.” It was the truth, too. His injuries from Hell had healed somewhat. He had been hiding up in a remote corner of Heaven with a slower moving time speed compared to that of Earth's; but he's not fully replenished yet, there's a curious light headedness making his vessel's eyesight swim, it's pestering him relentlessly.

Dean stutters painfully, several different emotions warring for dominance in his soul. He can't decide whether or not he should punch the asshole or send him to bed. His chest is tight with something, and it's all he can do to let go of the angel, worried that he'll actually go for the blade on the table if he doesn't get an explanation. Castiel doesn't seem outwardly put out by the loss of his supporter, but he pales and teeters until Bobby swears thickly under his breath and replaces him; forcing the angel into Dean's previous seat. “What did you _do,_ Cas?!” The older Winchester barks harshly. “And don't you dare pretend you did nothing!”

Blue eyes suddenly seem to bore up into Dean's. If the hunter had ever been unsure if Castiel wasn't human, the pure wrath which fills his gaze for an instant with clear white radiance definitely convinces him. It's somewhat unnerving, he'd become used to the slightly softer glares that practically human Cas had used to send him. The return of the piercing, 'I can literally see your soul' stare was a little rattling. The angel puffs up a little, still glaring up at the younger hunter. “I managed to get Sam out of The Cage; Lucifer and Michael are still contained.”

The words drill into Dean's brain and his entire body seems to swell with something massive and inexplicable. Bobby knows a thunderstorm when he sees one and quickly interrupts the conversation with a question of his own to let the chaos that was Dean Winchester's emotions silently blow over head. “Why the hell would the angels let Sam out and not Michael? They planning something again?”

Castiel looks somewhat pained and shakes his head, and damn it all if he doesn't look even more tired than Sam. The fight left in the Seraph had been filling the room, and in a blink, it fades away. He rubs the bridge of his nose as if harbouring the mother of all headaches. It's a terrifyingly human gesture to see. “The angels don't know.” He replies quietly.

He sounds so resigned to being disappointed by his family that Dean's anger dissipates instantly. The room feels too crowded for a few moments, the two hunters rushing to connect dots and fill in the blanks left behind by the few words the angel gives them. Confusion and, though he would die before admitting it, slight awe fills Dean's eyes as he stares down at the fried, personal Winchester Guardian Angel. There's no way, surely? No way that he could have done this. “Cas, you? You pulled Sam out of Hell by _yourself?_ ” The angel drops his hand and just stares at him. “It took like an army of you guys to get me out!”

Castiel sighed and glanced at Sam, before slowly closing his eyes and leaning back into the chair. “Sometimes, “more of the same” isn't enough.” He mumbles tiredly. “Sam doesn't deserve to be in Hell any more than you do Dean, he asked me to watch over you two, and I am.”

What the hell was he supposed to say to that? What do you do when an angel has more confidence of your worth than you do yourself? Dean Winchester doesn't do Chick-Flick moments, and this totally counts as a Chick-Flick moment, and so the hunter struggles with himself and falls back on what he always does when confronted with blunt emotions that cut a little too close to his heart; he brushes them off like they're offensive, and gets angry. “And you couldn't tell me this four hours ago! What happened to _Peace or freedom?_ Cas?! What, you suddenly change your mind when it fucking suits you and freakin' sucks to be everyone else?!”

There's a small croaking voice that breaks through the room like a wrecking ball, cutting off Dean's charade effortlessly between breaths. _“Dean!”_ It shuts down the anger and confusion and cornered fear in one single instant. The noise is accompanied by an unmistakable, fucking beautiful, Sam Winchester patented bitch face. Because, despite waking up outside of the cage; drained, tortured, confused and relieved, Sam _still_ manages to sound annoyed that he is chewing the angel out. It stops the Winchester stupid.

All at once, the barrier breaks. “ _Sam!_ Holy Shit, Sam! Are you all right? Talk to me, Sammy!” It comes out desperate and breathless. Dean so doesn't care. Chick-Flick moments be damned, the second Sam manages to haul himself to sit upright, Dean wraps him up in his most protective Big-Brother hug ever, revelling in the way that his brother seemed to sigh into him for a moment with uncoverable relief, before backing away again.

Even Bobby's eyes were suspiciously shiny as Sam's exhausted gaze finally met Castiel's equally drained eyes. The angel watching the procession with nothing short of calm fondness. “Cas? You pulled me out?” The awe in his voice isn't even remotely concealed and Castiel gives him a reassuring smile in return, the action looks unpractised, but there's no questioning it's authenticity.

“It was close for a moment, but yes, I did.” God, just listening to him made the hunter feel tired.

There's another quiet pause. But it feels so much fuller than the crushing quiet of the Impala's cabin. And Dean finally swallows all of the emotional torment that had been drowning since he had left this very same house less than ten hours ago. Sam is back, Sam is safe. Team Free Will is all back in one place. That's it. Everything that Dean wants.

But, he's still angry about his previous question. He doesn't like being kept in the dark; it never ends well for any of them. “You were going to tell me that you brought Sam back? Right, Cas?”

Castiel's eyes close again, though he still manages to give off an air of sleepy irritation. It's an impressive skill. “I told Bobby.” He answers, the angel sounds almost petulant. Dean considers that he's just fought his way out of Hell, he decides Castiel is allowed to be as damn petulant as he likes.

Bobby takes another much needed shot. “That was you in my head?” The older hunter is all narrowed eyes and caution. He's never been good with letting anything supernatural tamper with him.

Castiel ignores him. “I was...unable to move when we finally got out, it was a near thing to get Sam here, I believed he would be safe until I recovered...”

And then Dean had interrupted angel nap time as if the world was on fire.

The older Winchester has the sense to look a little char-grinned at that, finally letting out a very genuine “Thanks, Cas.” Those two words summing up everything that Dean wasn't capable of putting into speech, thousands and thousands of words concentrated down over and over again until those two little words contain everything he has to give. Castiel opens his eyes briefly to show that he understands exactly what Dean's saying. That's enough for them.

By the time that Dean glances back to Sam to check that he is, in fact, still there. His brother has fallen back to sleep and there's a moment of blind panic. “Is he really all right, Cas?”

Bleary blue meets concerned green and Castiel nods. The Seraph has taken issue in the past with being made to repeat things unnecessarily, but all he seems to be now is compassionately sympathetic. It's a lot of emotion for the stoic creature in one sitting and it looks like it's tiring him out faster. “He was down there for almost a hundred days before I reached him. I can't remember how much longer it took to get back out...” The angel shudders, Hell fire burning in his memory before he forces himself to focus again. It's the first time that Dean's ever thought about how much diving into the pit after lost Winchesters might've scarred the angel. “I've dulled as much of his memory as I could, but it's still there. You were there too long to wipe clean, Dean.” There's an apology there, but now is not the time and Dean's breath has hitched too much for him to say anything at all. “But physically he's just exhausted. It may take a while for him to recover his strength.”

Dean gave the drained angel a considering once over glance as Bobby took yet another shot in the background; carefully listening in. “I was completely fine when I woke up.” The Winchester says warily, not liking the missing parallel.

Castiel gives a faint nod, as if he'd been waiting for Dean to ask. It relaxes the hunter a little, there was a reason. “I was not alone that time, and I recovered a little before I rebuilt your body and healed your soul; my Garrison watched over you for an hour or two before I finished putting you back together. Sam's physical body was dragged into the cage too, and I was far too injured to do more than heal his injuries.” There's a consternated undertone to his voice, as if he's concerned that Dean will take it personally that Sam didn't come back sporting a freaking bow and complementary cake. But his eyelids are also drooping, worn gaze broken by long, slow, blinks every other second.

The hunter gives in. Everything that's been haunting him, all of the anger and fear and anxiety, all of it rolls away, falling from his shoulders like boulders. For the moment, things are fine. There is a fuckton of answers that Dean fully intends to get from the Seraph at some point, but for the moment, Dean has his little, weird ass family safe in one place. And he intends to take care of it. So instead of barking out that that's not good enough, Dean merely sighs and nudges the angel's shoulder playfully. “It's okay, Cas. Hell, we're no angels. But we can look after Sam and you until morning at least, get some rest dude, you look fucking terrible.”

The chair the angel is slumped all over is the weird ass one that usually lives in the corner, torn at birth between being a comfy armchair and hard-backed spine breaker; and as uncomfortable as it looks, the angel drops into sleep almost as soon as Dean finishes his sentence. It's a worrying sign, a warning bell to how drained the angel is to fall asleep at all. But, that was the last chick moment of the evening as far as Dean's concerned.

The two hunters argue about what to do for a while. Bobby wants to research a little and ward the house, while Dean just wants to wallow in having them all close by. They compromise eventually. The two warding the house against everything they can think of and leaving the work until later. It's dawn by the time Bobby disappears up the stairs for the night, early morning light beginning to filter in through the windows. Dean stumbles around Castiel's stolen chair and Sam's taken couch to yank the curtains shut. That done, he debates grabbing his other duffel from the Impala. He stares for a few seconds at the doorway, but for the life of him, he can't make his feet move forwards. There's nothing after them. They are the safest that three hunters and an angel can be. But Dean can't move. Because what if something happens?

Grumbling to himself, Dean turns. Bobby always leaves a blanket in the bottom of the chest of drawers next to the sofa in case of emergencies. Yanking the musty fabric out, he pulls off his jacket and screws it into a lame ass pillow and kicks off his boots. Sinking down beside the couch, it's a long time before the hunter can tear his eyes away from his baby brother long enough to sleep. They're all still here, still a screwed up little team. And that was the whole point of going up against the apocalypse in the first place, wasn't it?

\--


	3. Anxious Times and Perilous Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when they thought they could finally move on with their lives; there's a Messenger of God in the kitchen, and it's not good news...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that Castiel was a Power during the whole apocalypse, and that's why Zach and Alastair were so much trouble for him. Then, when he gets revived after Lucifer gets locked back in the cage, he comes back as a Seraph, which is why he can now threaten Crowley as the King of Hell etc... Just in case anyone was confused.

It took three weeks for the Winchesters to return to hunting. It would have only taken two but Dean was being all but unbearable in regards to the health of his younger brother.

The first few days of Sam's return the younger Winchester pretty much slept straight through, eating like a starved troll in the rare hours that he'd rejoin the world of the waking, before vanishing back into the guest room like a ghost that was dead set on eating Bobby out of house and home. Dean had fretted and complained and growled all the way through it, but it passed soon enough. Other than that, Sam was as healthy as he'd ever been, reporting no cravings or anything else that would have given the older Winchester a stroke.

All in all, life was pretty bland. The duo were like lost kites, the apocalypse had been their wind, keeping them constantly working not to snap. Now that it's gone, they didn't really know what to do with themselves. Dean spends the time watching his brother, staring as if the whole thing is going to vanish right in front of him, Sam tolerates it for about six hours before they start bickering in earnest. Testing against each other just to make sure this world is real.

Bobby throws a fit, and the brothers seem to come to a truce. But staying in one place drives the older Winchester up the wall, the Winchester prowling through the old building like a caged tiger. They're not stupid, neither believe they could fully stop and settle down somewhere. Not yet. The apocalypse has been harsh on both of them; that agonising drive to Lisa's had terrified Dean in more ways than one, the last time he had settled anywhere for more than a year was before his mother's murder back in Kansas so long ago. He doesn't know if it's for him. He doesn't think he could do it right.

The idea to suddenly stop hunting and just settle had the older Winchester's heart racing, he was Dean Winchester. He had been trained a lethal hunter since he was four years old, how can he just sit in one place and pretend people weren't losing their lives every day when he knows damn well that he could have saved them? He's not a sentimental idiot, or some deluded "hero"; he knows damn well you can't save everyone, but the alternative to let them die didn't sit right with him. He'd lived his life running; he doesn't know how to stop.

All of these years, this life has been his job. It's taken until now to understand it's also his choice.

Sam's reasons were not all too different from Dean's, but there are certainly variations. Sam still wants Dean to have that apple pie life. But the younger Winchester has never been able to stop without someone dying. Jessica had just been the one that had hit him hardest; the alliance with ruby had taken its toll on the younger brother, and after all of the crap that Heaven and Hell had put both of the brothers through over the last few years, he doubted he could simply relax some where without something coming for revenge eventually. And was that really worth the risk in the end? Building something up and then having something supernatural come and tear it all down again? Could he take something like that again?

At the moment, the only answer he has is _no._

He still wanted to go back to college, he still didn't want to hunt for the rest of his life, but finally free from Hell, Sam had people to save from whatever the predictable kick back from shutting down the apocalypse would bring. And he thought _that_ , might just be worth the risk to his life. Might give him some time to sort out his plans.

But, life wasn't entirely peachy for those three weeks.

Sam's memories of Hell were, in the largest understatement, horrific. Castiel had dulled the memory as much as he could, but even that couldn't stop them completely, visions that feel as real as ever haunting his dreams. The angel had explained that both archangels had been greatly weakened after the fall into the cage, and that what the younger Winchester had gone through during those hundred days was still only leading up to how bad it would have eventually become. That comment didn't really help settle either brother. But, never before had Sam been so grateful for the weird angel's presence anyway.

The vicious memories haunted him desperately, clinging to him incessantly, turning his already strained nightmares into something he couldn't even begin to describe. But, his brother had reassured him that eventually, their frequency would dull, they would never stop, and triggers would set them off for maybe a week at a time, but they would not affect him so greatly in the future. And Sam clung to that with everything he had, if anyone knew what they were talking about on this subject; it was Dean Winchester. It's fucked up, but that's just the Winchester way.

With that in mind. The boys returned to hunting at the end of the third week.

-

By the end of the fifth week since Sam's revival, the boys were again back at Bobby's from a simple werewolf hunt the next state over. They'd been taking their hunts easy, not yet quite back to tracking demons, but gearing up to it slowly over the weeks. Demon activity was still erratic with the power struggle in Hell, and Heaven was being eerily quiet. Castiel had returned to be "sheriff" of Heaven the day after Sam came back, and they hadn't heard from him since. Hell wasn't the only place struggling with a power play problem, the boys were just more confident that Heaven would settle down again.

Bobby is still watching his boys like a hawk, though the brothers would feel more inclined to say brooding mother hen. The elder hunter was trying to be discreet, still grouching to them about this and that, lecturing Sam about pushing too fast too soon in the days after he came back and ripping into Dean about smothering the kid.

Despite all his chewing out and eye-balling about letting Sam getting back on his own two feet and for Dean to pull himself together again after the shock of Sam dying; he was nervous about them going off to hunt again. It feels like the world is holding it's breath. They're Just helplessly waiting around for Lucifer to make a surprise comeback.

So yeah, maybe Bobby was being a bit of a hypocrite scolding the boys about mollycoddling each other while he secretly frets and scrutinises them. But he's the oldest hunter there, it's his damn job. Always had been even since John was still alive, and God if a small part of him still hates that man for bringing the Winchester brothers into this whole mess in the first place. But the past is just that, and now that it is his job, he takes it damn seriously. Not that he'll ever let the brothers know it, stubborn pair of dumbasses.

As it is, Bobby narrowed his eyes from where he was sitting behind his old desk in the study, watching as Dean reached for another bottle of whiskey that had been previously locked away; he needs a new locking system to keep these two out of his alcohol stash. An old fashioned lock and key was a bit redundant when faced with a duo that had been lock picking since they were five years old.

Frowning, while simultaneously trying to think of better protection for his precious private stash, Bobby opened his mouth to snap at the older Winchester who had spent the last few weeks attempting to drown himself in alcohol to block out the memories of nightmares he was pretending he didn't have every night.

The older Hunter's sharp tone was completely drowned out by a resounding crash from the kitchen. The sliding doors to the other room were shut and all three of the bickering Hunter's fell silent and lunged for the closest weapon to hand in a mad scramble. Which, considering this was Bobby Singer's house, was ridiculously easy.

The previously relaxed atmosphere of the house quickly turned thick and heavy, Bobby nodding to Sam to yank open the double doors to the kitchen, while Dean and Bobby got ready to charge in. The house was still covered in Demon warding symbols, but they weren't taking any chances. Bobby cocked his shotgun and nodded to the boys.

Sam grabbed the old wooden handles, tensing for a split second, before yanking the doors apart harshly, the wooden objects slamming in protest as they slid as far as they could go along their runners, bouncing against the stops. Sam ducked out to the side with the doors, the other two hunters stepping forwards in tandem, weapons raised ready.

There was a silent surprised moment, weapons dropping. “Cas?!” Dean's surprised shout seemed to echo around the room as the hunter lowered his gun and took a step towards the angel, the concern within his tone would be denied to his dying day Bobby knew.

The angel was leaning up against the counter at his back, as if he'd stumbled back against it when he landed. It didn't bode well, he seemed rumpled enough that he looked as if he'd struggled to fly at all, his eyes wide in surprise that he had made it into the building, even if he had been aiming for the library. “Hello, Dean.” His customary greeting was a little thin, and all three of the hunters remained tense and uneasy. Castiel didn't seem to take notice, straightening his balance as if he hadn't just been two inches from falling in the sink.

The nonchalance didn't ease the hunter's wariness. Castiel was favouring his left shoulder even as he greeted Bobby and Sam with a tilt of the head; he held his arm stiffly, closer to his side than normal, as if moving it hurt.

“So...I gonna get any unwanted house guests, Cas?” The oldest Hunter griped out, so far as they knew, Castiel had been resurrected a Seraph, he was more powerful than before, yet here he was looking none to steady on his feet and Bobby hoped to hell the angel had only managed to get himself sick or accidentally injured. That was a much better alternative to whatever powerful creature could successfully attack and injure Seraphim.

Sam seemed to be of the same opinion as he sheathed Ruby's knife and eyed the angel's shoulder, scrutinising the drops of blood beginning to seep through the man's trench coat at an alarming rate. “But, I thought you were in Heaven?” His question cuts across Bobby's, but the gist was the same.

Sam's staring caught Castiel's attention, and the angel nodded and held up his hand as the taller Winchester went to guide him into the study to the sofa. Castiel refused the attention with a stubborn, “I'm fine, Sam.” but allowed himself to be herded into the study all the same, even accepting the tumbler of whiskey that Dean had poured for himself just a minute before. Sensing that he wouldn't be able to brush off the human's questions, Castiel drained his shot and glanced back up at them. “I was in Heaven.” He confessed eventually, and Bobby, even though he didn't speak or read Castiel as well as Dean did, finally noticed the anxious set of the angel's shoulders and worried look in his eyes. The too blue gaze dropped to the floor, avoiding Dean's eyes and frowning like he didn't want to continue. It set every single one of Bobby's alarm bells blaring. “Raphael attacked me.” The Seraph gives eventually, his tone is harder than iron, anger leaking through his attempt at control. But that's not the worst of it. Dean looks angry and surprised enough that the archangel is still out for the lesser angel's blood. But Castiel wouldn't ever show up on Bobby Singer's door step because big brother gave him a chicken scratch. He may be on the Winchesters' side, but he still carries an angel's share of pride. The glare Castiel is burning a hole in the floor with goes tight and dark. “He's been trying to...restart...the Apocalypse.”

The silence that hits them feels like it's spinning the room beneath their feet. Knocking them all stupid. The tension swallows the room whole as the ominous words settle in. This is it. This is what they've all been waiting for; the moment everything they've just started trying to rebuild all comes crashing down on top of them. The three hunters glance nervously at each other, all dreading the explanation the angel seems to be trying to avoid giving them. They could deal with anything; monsters, spirits, reapers, anything. But not this, anything but another round of Lucifer and the damn Apocalypse. They wouldn't pull through another one, and all four members of Team Free Will knew it.

The quiet only stretches on for a few seconds, Sam slamming down his bottle against Bobby's table. “Restart the Apocalypse? But, Why!?” Sam's voice was shaking. After his recent stay in Hell, wedged firmly between two injured, furious, bored archangels, no one was going to call him out on it. The kid is wide eyed and terrified, and Bobby really doesn't blame him.

Castiel manages to glare at all of them at once, as if annoyed that they don't understand even though he's told them absolutely nothing. Dean glares icily back and there's a few seconds before Castiel sighs in resignation, the anger that carried him here fading away. “Heaven's in chaos. Since I returned, Raphael and a large portion of the Heavenly Host have being attempting to restart the Apocalypse as Michael might have. Without Michael in charge, Raphael has taken over as the last archangel.” There's a pause, blue glancing around the small group of hunters as if he's suddenly actually realised where he is and who he's talking to. His expression turns pained for a moment, then closes; eye's darting past Sam and through the window, looking all the world like he's regretting that he had landed here at all. It screams _flight risk._

These three humans had sacrificed enough on Heaven and Hells' behalf, what right did he have to involve them anymore?

Bobby mulled over the little information the angel had let slip. Clamping a hand down on Castiel's shoulder, the older Winchester gives him a _Stay The Fuck Where You Are_ stare, before fiercely tugging the lapel of Castiel's coat across and catching sight of a bloody hole in the angel's shoulder, oozing blood and grace. “Damn, Cas! He Getcha with an angel blade?”

Castiel seems a little pissy at being tugged at like the parent of a petulant child, but he stays nonetheless. “Yes. But the stab was shallow, he seemed to be more intent in getting his point across.” Despite the impatient reassurances, the injury was still bleeding both blood, and to a lesser extent, Grace. The elegant white wisps curled around his shoulder like a beautiful holy smoke; every time Dean touched the wound the Seraph struggled not to wince at the sharp pain that greeted it. Sensing Dean's concern, the angel's blue eyes sort out Dean's. “It will heal by itself, Dean. The injury merely clipped my Grace.”

Dean growled thickly. “My Ass it will.” He snapped, tugging at Castiel's tie hard. This earned him a head tilt from Cas, silently asking; 'What does your ass have to do with this, Dean?' Ignoring the confusion, Dean ploughed on. “This needs to be bound, Cas.” Sam was nodding in agreement and Bobby was shooting the angel an amused smirk and raised eyebrow. Castiel knew Winchester stubbornness when he saw it and had learned enough from past experiences to know that sometimes it's easier to just give in. Let them cater to his vessel if it would settle their nerves; it wasn't like Castiel had too much energy left to argue with.

Resigned to his fate, the angel watched as Sam left the room to gather their medical supplies, before he slid his coat and jacket from his shoulders so gingerly that Dean had to wonder how much pain the stubborn bastard was masking. Despite this, Dean's next comment managed to catch the angel off guard. “What else, Cas?” Another confused head tilt met Dean's question and the Hunter sighed with an air of a long-suffering parent. “You're fried, man. If Turtle Power only clipped your wings a little, why're you so drained?”

Castiel squinted at his human, Dean was so much smarter and intuitive than he gave himself credit for, though the angel had no idea what that reference was implying about his older brother. Sometimes Castiel likes to wonder how much easier his life would be if Dean Winchester made sense when he spoke. “I've been at _war_ , Dean. The fighting is constant...” His defence would have been fine, Dean scowling at Castiel's patronising tone sourly, if his coat beside him on the raggedly old couch didn't chose that moment to _move_. Dean had the Colt in his hand in a heart-beat.

The angel stares at the gun as if in disapproval, like the asshole is disappointed with the hunter's reaction. “I...also found this a few minutes after Raphael attacked me.” Pausing in unbuttoning his Dress shirt and ignoring Sam's return and Bobby's cautious expression, the angel plucked a little ball of wiry black fur from his right hand coat pocket. The fluff seemed to morph into a little stubby creature with half flopped ears, paws that seemed too short and too big at the same time, and huge brown puppy eyes. The angel must have been working some mojo because there's no way that stupid looking rat could've fit in there that long without them noticing. “I believe it is a Scottish Terrier Dog.” He informed his human charges. Dumbass actually sounds a little bit pleased with himself for getting the name right.

Sam, being the immense girl that he is, cooed at the puppy when it turned huge sleepy eyes at them, and it quickly responded by perking it's too floppy ears and wagged it's stubby little tail. “Where did you get a puppy from?” the moose paused, tilting his head at the blood soaked dress-shirt still hanging half open and the little flecks of blood speckled in the young dog's coat. His face scrunches up in the way it always does when he's making a decision. It's reminiscent of the days he used to poke his tongue out of the corner of his mouth when he did it as a child. “Let me take it till you get sorted, yeah?” The angel hesitates. The movement wasn't lost on any of them. “Just to get the blood off.” Sam adds quickly, slowly taking it from the angel as he did so. Castiel is suddenly peering at him as if deciding whether or not he's worthy enough, there's a rather terrifying intensity about it and Sam wavers for a moment, looking a little uncertain that the angel won't smite him if he doesn't put the stupid thing back where he found it.

“Dude, he won't hurt it, just give it to him already.” Dean was as delicate as ever, but the man was stumped at the mutt's sudden appearance and was already running possible scenarios through his head on how to get rid of it. There was no way they were keeping the damn thing, and God he hoped the angel hadn't unintentionally stolen in from a little kid. Sam gave his older brother a bitch face, but Castiel gave in, eyes turning back to Dean passively, wordlessly letting Sam have it and allowing Dean to tend to his injury. Though he watches a little uncertainly as Sam vanishes into the kitchen with it. “So... Wanna let us in on the sudden Dog Whispering, Caesar?” The older Winchester presses, he's still a little shell-shocked at the whole _restart the apocalypse_ line. But, for now, it doesn't sound as if there's something going on right at this very moment. If Lucifer was back on Earth, Castiel would have warned them by now. Either that or they'd all be dead already.

“Who's Caesar?”

“No one, some guy who talks to dogs...I think, anyway”

Castiel seems affronted, though Dean wasn't entirely sure why. “I am not “Caesar.” Dean snorts lowly, the Seraph peers at him peevishly, like a cat taking offence. “My meeting with Raphael was not pleasant, and the fighting drained me. By the time I escaped from my pursuers, I was flying over-” Castiel paused, the humour of it not lost on him, “-Winchester, in England. Someone threw the animal into a river in a sealed container.”

Dean shook his head. “ _People_ man. Monsters, demons, dicks with wings sure... But, people are crazy.” Dean was no animal rights campaigner, but who picks on a tiny, fucking defenceless, puppy? The hunter paused to pick up an antiseptic wipe, there was barely any chance the angel would get infected but old habits die hard. “You didn't smite them did you? Bring down a little wrath of Heaven on his ass?” It was meant as a joke, but the feral look the angel gave him made Dean decide then and there to never harm an animal, -not that he does-, in the angel's presence. It wouldn't be worth the risk to his life. Trust him to get stuck with the freaking Attenborough of Heaven's witless wonders.

“No” Castiel answered eventually, and damn it all if it didn't sound like the angel had seriously thought about smiting the asshole. “But, when I landed next to him with the dog in hand, he seemed... surprised. I didn't expect him to fall over the barrier.”

Dean choked out a surprised laugh, playfully nudging the angel's uninjured shoulder. “You're a scary bastard, you know that?”

Smirking dryly, the angel tilted his head again. “The animal was starved and half dead; healing animals is usually much easier than healing humans, but this one was so young and deprived that it... clung on to my Grace, much like you did.”

The hunter nearly swallowed part of the wrapper he had been tearing off with his teeth. “I, what!?”

When Castiel answers, it's with his _Why Are You Acting So Surprised?_ head tilt. Man, that one always irritates Dean. “When I grabbed you in Hell, it is part of the reason I branded you. It took a while before I could disentangle it's soul from my Grace without killing it in the process, but now it is fully healed again.”

The way Cas' tone turned a little bewildered at the end of that line had Dean concerned again, even as he tried to stop spluttering from that last bombshell. “But...?”

Castiel frowned, wincing slightly at Dean's continuing prodding. “I tried to leave it at a shelter, but when I left it felt like a small...tug, on my Grace. It stops whenever I'm close to it. And the pull is tiny even when I'm in Heaven, but...”

“It's never happened before, right? Don't worry about it, it'll probably wear off.” Pausing, the Hunter decided against stitching the injury, if this was anything like the other times Cas had been injured, the wound would heal quickly enough that stitches were a bit pointless, but that didn't mean he was letting the angel leave it unattended. “This cut is deep, buddy.” He added as he began rummaging for some butterfly bandages, Dean must have been the last one to use the kit because absolutely nothing is where it should be. Sam always throws a whiny bitch fit about it.

The angel seemed to sense where this conversation was heading, shifting awkwardly against Dean's palm, even more so when his grip tightens and those green eyes glare back at him. “I must return to Heaven, Dean.” _I don't have time for this._

Shaking his head, Dean's having none of it. “What? Dude, no. You need to let this heal, I know you're all supercharged now but this is deep, man.” There wasn't much he could do to stop Cas leaving if he's set on it, but from what he knows about the stubborn bastard, Cas is the type to put off an injury as long as possible and get himself killed later because of it. At least some of Cas' bad habits haven't all come from watching Dean.

“I have an army to command.” Castiel protested instantly, even as Dean leant forwards to eye how he was going to close the hole in the angel's arm.

Dean frowns, filing the _army_ comment away to demands answers about in a few minutes. “Well, command it in a few hours. You're no good to anyone if you exhaust yourself, Cas!” Appealing to the angel's fierce loyalty may have been a little manipulative on Dean's part, but it made the angel hesitate, even if it was so minute that Bobby couldn't see it. It's not enough, the hunter can tell just in the way Castiel's eyes narrow slightly. The Winchester dives for something else. “‘Sides, this mutt needs a name right? You found it, you name it.”

Castiel glances at Bobby for support, and the elder hunter was reminded of two children arguing and looking to their parent for the deciding vote. He wasn't sure what was more disturbing, the fact that he was the parent in this situation, or the fact that he seemed to have adopted another stray that was actually thousands of years older than him. “Just stay for an hour or two, Idgit. And Dean, stop brooding over everyone, it's gettin' damn creepy.” Dean bristled and Castiel frowned but the elder hunter didn't give them the time to comment. “But, you said “a large part of the Heavenly host” wants to restart the Apocalypse. What about the rest of you? You said “army”,” he ended this with a nod at Castiel himself. “You obviously don't all agree.”

The angel's gaze drops to his lap for a moment, tight lines around his eyes, mournful that his family seems to be ripping in two. He takes no notice of Sam coming back into the room with a white towel and a damp nose peeking through the folds. “Heaven is in the middle of a civil war.” He explained, voice low and carefully steady. “I thought my brothers would be open to the change, I thought they would embrace the idea of their own choices.” He stops, frowning hard. He doesn't even flinch when Dean smooths down the square wad of gauze over the slice. When he starts again, there's no emotion colouring his words at all. “Raphael's armies are set on restarting the Apocalypse, but others have begun to question and are starting to fight back. They believe that if my father wanted the Apocalypse to have taken place, it _would_ have, regardless of our interference. And I wouldn't be here either.”

Dean and Bobby glanced at each other with a minor cringe, recalling Lucifer's vicious murder of his younger brother; but it was Sam who spoke up first. “I'm... sorry, Castiel.” The younger Winchester had been awake, screaming in protest, trapped in his own mind as the archangel tore Castiel apart and killed Bobby in the space of a few short seconds.

The angel glanced at the younger brother's guilty expression, and after today's unexpected rescue of the puppy, the angel finally understood the “kicked puppy look” reference Dean often used for his brother. “Don't apologise for that, Sam. That was entirely Lucifer's doing, and I do not hold you responsible for it.”

Sam manages a small, soft smile. He doesn't quite accept the angel's reassurances. It wasn't okay, something like that isn't something Sam can just get brush away from his memory. But hearing the angel actually say it was a coaxed tentative step in the right direction. “So, you think we can stop Raphael? I mean, if the archangels wanted to start the apocalypse so bad, why did they wait for all the seals to break unless there was no other way? We know what the first seal is right?” He paused, catching the suddenly blank look on his older brother's face. “So, the cage can't be opened, right?”

Sam's hopeful theory seem to make the angel wilt a little bit. “The angels were following prophecy and orders then, but Raphael... he believes God dead, he will do things his way. He will do whatever it takes to smash the cage back open somehow, though I believe that he cannot break it open himself. The cage was designed with archangels in mind, I doubt he could even breach it the way I did.” Castiel tried to suppress the light shudder at the memory of his two archangel brothers screaming betrayal at him as he ascended from Hell, Dean frowns as he tapes down the last corner, but thankfully says nothing. “But he _will_ do it, and against an archangel, there isn't anything we can do.” It hurts the angel to admit it, but it was the truth. And _God_ it stung that after all of their sacrifice over the last year or two, another one of his brothers is out for their blood again.

Dean threw his supplies haphazardly back into the medical bag, earning a glare from his brother as Sam knew he'd be the one to have to fix it later. “That's Bull, Cas. We stopped Michael and Lucifer's pissing match; we can stop teenage mutant ninja archangel too. So, tell us what we need to do.” The man said it with such confidence that Castiel almost believed him, even if he didn't know what that reference was implying.

He can't believe him though, he can't allow himself that luxury.

Both Lucifer and Raphael had both already killed him once, and now it was highly likely one or the other would get another go. The brothers simply didn't understand what they were up against. “There _is_ nothing I can do Dean, I have no idea what Raphael is planning to break the cage. The forces I'm marshalling may slow him down, but he is too powerful.”

The righteous man threw up his hands, placatingly. “Easy, Sheriff. We'll start scouring the books, you angels are weak to several things, your dick brother must be too.” Sam agreed even as Castiel seemed to bristle.

Still nodding sagely, Sam began rubbing the little puppy dry in the overly fluffy towel. “He's right, Cas. We'll figure this out.” Both brothers turned to Bobby. Their eyes saying _agree with us_ , and his head saying _there's not a chance in Hell this'll work._

“I'll call some people, sniff around a bit. You boys need to ease back into hunting again before you take this thing on, and Cas, we're gonna need you for this, try and stay off big bro's hit list ya hear?” A pair of blue eyes squinted at him and the elder hunter took that as reluctant assent. “Good. Now what're ya planning on doing with this runt?”

Castiel tilted his head at the small, sleepy little creature staring at him. Every time Sam tried to stroke it without the towel between his hand and the dog's coat, the little animal would squirm, ears falling a little fearfully and hunching up, giving little yips and yaps. It gave the same response when Bobby glanced over it, the elder hunter having the most experience with dogs.

It was...oddly sweet. Castiel decided. No, she, _she_ was oddly sweet. Something inexplicable had made the battered angel stop over that bridge, he had been flying at a speed that would boggle the human mind, but when he caught the sight of the falling container and felt the shear panic of the vulnerable animal. Something fierce and protective had exploded within him and his wings had banked with no thought at all, not stopping until he caught the puppy straight through the plastic and landed on the bridge. The little soul was so pure, but at the same time so _terrified_. He hadn't felt this protective of anything before his three human charges since he used to occasionally visit the fledglings in Heaven's nursery.

The possessiveness tore at him. Usually, his attachment to something like a puppy would be met with his brethren's resistance and disapproval. He would have to give the baby creature up, or worse, kill it. But...he wanted to keep it, shelter it. It was a foreign emotion floating around in his grace, but he didn't _want_ to part with the helpless thing. It confuses him thoroughly, unsure how to deal with the situation. If he says anything about it, he's certain Dean would become angry, though he didn't think he would understand why. So, all he can do is try to think of a convincing lie. “It...she-,” he paused briefly at Dean's raised eyebrow, but bravely pushed on, “-cannot come to Heaven with me. And she is still calling, and relying on, my Grace.” His gaze shifted to a point somewhere next to Dean's ear. “If the other angel's find her, it could be dangerous...”

Dean's raised eyebrow was slowly accompanied by a smirk. “You suck at lying when you want something for yourself, Cas.” Sam and Bobby glanced at Dean, then back at the tiny hint of disappointment in Cas' blue eyes at being detected and having to give the fluffy bundle up anyway. The kicked look he's sporting as he solemnly watches the small creature is damn near heart breaking.

Sam shakes his head, sympathy rising in droves. “We'll keep her for you for now, 's not like she's old enough to be re-homed, she only looks about seven weeks...”

Dean baulks on the spot, glancing hurriedly between the angel, the mutt, and his enormous baby brother, abject horror painted on his features. “Dude! No! That is _not_ coming in my Baby!”

The older Winchester can see the impending argument settle behind his brother's eyes like a wall. This time, Sam was putting his foot down. He may not “speak Cas” like Dean does, but the poor guy kept glancing at the little thing with something such so akin to want that Sam was hard pressed not to stare at him. He's never seen Castiel look like he actually wants something before. Castiel pulled his ass from Hell, he could at least help him now. “Dean! We're not getting rid of her!”

Somehow, in a way that was entirely unique to Dean, the Righteous Man managed to growl and sigh at the same time. “Enabler.”

“She won't be a problem to you, Dean...” Cas himself added in such a small tone that Dean glanced from his brother to meet the blue-eyed angel's gaze. _Big fucking mistake._

Dean cursed his brother mentally with every insult he could think of, because one look at the wilting angel had his resolve against the stupid dog crumbling, who said Sam could teach _Castiel_ fucking puppy eyes! As if the staring with those stupid blue eyes wasn't bad enough. He's staring at Dean like he holds the map pointing to God himself. “Damn it, fine! Bobby, I don't suppose we could leave it here?”

Bobby quickly smothers his smirk as the older Winchester turned to him. “No way, Boy. Keep a puppy with all these books? Take the little runt with ya, 's not like it'll take up your whole car. 'Sides, I don't do small dogs, I'm too old to keep bendin' down.” The puppy _could_ have stayed with him of course, and it would have been ridiculously easy to give away to someone in a week, but watching Dean pretend like he hated it already when he kept glancing at the pathetic creature kept making Bobby's lips twitch. He had a feeling the little rat would teach the hunter a thing or two.

Sighing heavily, Dean ignored another bitch-face that Sam sent his way, and watched as his brother dropped the damp creature onto Castiel's lap just as the angel finished pulling on his newly clean clothes. The angel and the Scottie stared at each other for a full second and simultaneously tilted their heads as if to get a better look. Dean's sudden snort of amusement broke the pair from their staring and both seemed to watch him carefully. As if waiting for him to change his mind and send them both away. “Match made in Heaven. Eh, Sam?”

Sam failed miserably in hiding his smirk. “Something like that.”

–

The next hour, by all accounts, was both amusing and educational for everyone involved.

The puppy just sat, perched on the angel's thighs, staring up at him. Both of them had their heads still tilted, and they stayed like that for a good ten minutes. She really was tiny, shivering lightly at all of the strange newness surrounding her, but seemed more interested in the weird creature that she was sitting on than the room or it's other occupants. It makes Dean wonder if the mutt can sense that her saviour is more than he seems.

The hunters try to get started on some basic research, -Dean has a copy of Busty Asian Beauties hidden in front of his book, but, hey, research isn't really his forte-, but all three kept glancing to the strange pair sitting on the old study’s' sofa. How many people could say an angel and a puppy had had a staring contest in their house? It's not even interesting, it's just _bizarre._

Finally, the tiny little fluffy creature whuffed in apparent approval, and nudged it's head against the angel's stomach. Hesitantly, flicking his eyes to Sam a few times, Cas slowly ran a hand along the tiny creature’s soft puppy coat. She started wagging her little tail and nudged again until Castiel repeated the gentle motion. She didn't shy away from Castiel as she had done Sam and Bobby, instead pausing to sniff the angel's fingers before curling up in the towel, still safely on the angel's lap, and closed her huge eyes in bliss. Though she would turn her head to nudge Cas' hand if he stopped stroking her for any period of time.

It was freaking adorable. Not to mention weird as hell. But there was something otherworldly about it too. Something so powerful and holy that demons themselves feared to be near to him, a thunderous hurricane trapped in a bottle of thin human skin, stroking something so weak and vulnerable and unendingly helpless was downright mesmerising. She's so small, barely filling up the palm of their hands, small and fragile and young. The younger Winchester realises in that moment, that if more angels were anything like Castiel; could be so powerful, but also so gentle at the same time; then maybe he could finally heal some of the damage the apocalypse had done to his faith. The sight itched at the back of all of the their minds, and finally, Sam lowered his book completely to ask a question that kept nibbling at him.

“Hey, Cas? Do dogs go to Heaven?”

Castiel glanced up at the Winchester perched next to Bobby's desk, curious at the sudden question as he continued his stroking of the helpless puppy. “...That is, difficult to explain.” He gave them, and it was a tribute to how much he had learned from the humans in his time with them that he realised that wasn't going to be enough of an answer to satisfy. “Dogs do not have...souls as humans do. They have something similar, but still innately different. They are not judged on worthiness to enter Heaven as human souls are, as there are no truly evil canine “souls”. They've always been loyal creatures and their nature allows them to easily ascend into Heaven. And, if a dog impacted a life enough, then that animal may eventually turn up in that person's Heaven.” He paused, Sam was hanging off his every word with that knowledge hungry look he got every time Castiel began talking about things like this. God, Dean's brother is such a freaking runaway nerd. “There are a few angels that deal with the animals of Heaven, but I have not met one personally.”

Dean was trying to pass off as though he wasn't listening all that intently, but Castiel rarely talked about Heaven or his past beyond pulling Dean out of Hell, so it was hard not to. But something about what the angel had explained left him with a question that made his heart beat faster just thinking about it. “What happens to Hell-hounds, then? Aren't they dogs?”

Considering the unusually nervous question from his human, Cas absently felt a nudge on his fingers and began stroking the Terrier again. The Seraph eyes Dean like he knows he has to answer this carefully and doesn't look away from the hunter for a single moment. “Hell-hounds came about through Demonic...experiments, on dog versions of Souls. Human souls are very powerful if used properly, and I believe they were trying to see if canine souls could be used the same way. They can't of course, dog souls tend to be much purer than human ones, but also weaker. The canines they used became damaged, and Hell found a use for them.”

“...Well, that sucks, I guess.” Dean says eventually, though there's a distinct lack of sympathy for the dangerous creatures. Having one rip you to shreds and drag you to Hell will do that to a guy.

“So...” Sam started suddenly, more than eager to change the subject away from Hell-hounds. “You gonna give her a name? We gotta call her something.”

The Seraph seemed to be caught off guard, wary at the responsibility naming something involves. He doesn't feel anywhere near qualified for this. “Perhaps that is better put to you three, I have not named such an animal before”

Eyeing the little creature's blissful face as the angel's gentle touches continued, Sam smiled somewhat indulgently. “Well, it's not every day an angel has a pet.” He ignored Dean's bristling at the implication of keeping the dog. “Only seems fitting she gets an angelic name too.”

Dean rolls his eyes with the air of the truly hard done by, secretly glad they weren't naming the stupid thing the clichéd Lucky or Miracle that most rescue animals tend to get lumbered with. “That's still your department, Cas.” he adds, trying to ignore the way Castiel looks at him as if he was searching for his approval. “Just think about it, 's not like you have to pick one now. But I don't care how busy you get up top, you come back down you got it? This runt is yours ya hear, so you're stuck with it. No dumping it on us and disappearing for weeks on end.” Tirade ended, Dean watched the angel nod. At least the damn dog gave him some levity over the angel, he now had a genuine reason to get Castiel to come and check in so they would at least know if something happens to him. He wasn't agreeing to keep the mutt. He was still trying to think of ways to ditch it on someone else, and he was still concerned that naming it was one step closer for his brother and the angel to become attached to it. But at least the runt has a purpose, even if it wasn't actually aware of it.

It's really fucking annoying, but the idea of Castiel getting killed up top and Dean never finding out what'd happened to him scares the life out of him.

–


	4. I Got 99 Problems...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out that small terrier puppies come with a stupid amount of personal baggage, who knew, right?
> 
> All Dean wants is a good shower damn it.

As far as Dean's concerned, the stupid terrier puppy is a damn unwanted nuisance. His annoying brother argues valiantly that the puppy “has her up points”, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean, but Dean really can't freakin' see them. The older hunter has a list as long as his arm about why she's a nuisance, but he's got it narrowed down to a couple biggies for convenience' sake if Sam brings it up again.

First off, on Dean's growing list of reasons to give the damn thing to a random passer-by, is the Impala. The day after leaving Bobby's for the possible hunt they were now chasing in Monahans, Texas, they came to the conclusion that she was going to suffer from travel sickness. Fucking terrific. Luckily, for Sam's, Cas' and the dog's sakes, Sam had expected as such; covering the back seat with an off-white folded stolen motel bath towel before they set off. If the younger Winchester had hoped that would improve Dean's mood if she did throw up, he'd severely misjudged Dean's potential to be reasonable. The smell and constant whimpering, which made Dean's heart twist no matter how violently he tried to crush the feeling, was seriously beginning to piss him off. The only relief came when the mutt fell asleep.

This leads nicely on to problem number two on Dean's puppy caused apocalyptic list. When awake she has no problem with it, but when she finally does drop off to sleep, huddled in towels and Sam's (Cause no way Dean was giving it one of his) jackets, the Scottie will startle awake at the loud notes of Dean's cassettes. And when awake, she would yip, yap, pine and throw up. And seriously, Dean's crept through Wendigo caves where he's not wanted to rouse the resident monster up less than how much he wants this stupid waste of space to wake up.

After spotting his murderous glares at the puppy through the rear-view mirror, Sam hastily suggests that having someone hold her may settle her nerves.

Which brought Dean promptly to issue number three. The youngster didn't like Sam touching her. She wasn't super choosy about Sam though, Bobby also couldn't touch or hold her without the damn thing squirming and hunching up in fear. Even that chick from the car in the gas station they had paused in was met with terrified rejection. Sam, for some reasons unknown to Dean, seemed to get depressed about the brush off, even more so because the suicidal rat, for some reason known only to that bastard God, seemed to like Dean.

Neither of them could fathom why, but the little bugger did.

She followed merrily after him around the pet store they had stopped in earlier like the most obedient creature on Earth. Maybe that was rather suitable considering her angelic saviour. They'd spent a good hour in that overly cheerful shop; Scottie trotting as quickly as her stubby little legs and huge paws could carry her after Dean as they fetched this and that. Well, Sam did most of the fetching. Dean mostly passed the time growling at things and glaring hard enough at the obnoxiously cheerful shop assistants that they awkwardly sidled away, shooting him nervous glances from behind the till. The stupid thing made no sense, she would grow nervous when passing other people in aisles, morphing into a small, black furry tennis ball whenever anyone tried to touch her. The only exception to this rule being squealing and just plain terrifyingly noisy young kids. Like, what the hell kind of behavioural consistency was that supposed to be? Two small girls barely up to Dean's knees had squealed, run up to the hunters and suddenly the shrivelled ball of terror unwound itself and began binging around their feet. Yipping little puppy barks that echoed across the aisles until their mother practically dragged them away.

Dean was sure the thing was just being difficult on purpose. He was beginning to see why that asshole had tried to drown the little shit.

The next problem Dean had with her, was the cost of her. That pet shop run had taken a good chunk of their hard earned (hustled, but whatever) cash. And she hadn't been grateful when they had finally manhandled her new Sapphire blue collar around her neck, Bobby's address on her rather appropriately silver wing-shaped dog tag.

The vet trip afterwards had almost been as expensive as all the pet care crap they had stuffed in the trunk. Sam spouted on and on about how they _don't know if she's had her shots_ and that _Rabies is a constant threat, not only to dogs, but also peopl_ e until Dean snapped and drove them to the nearest vets. And there went another large chunk of their cash. Not to mention the already shy creature was downright glaring at Sam because Dean sure as hell wasn't holding her still while the not-so-hot-chick jabbed that giant needle in her scruff to chip her. Dean would have thought the Scottie was part cat the way she seemed to bare a grudge like this. And to think, it needed a booster shot in a weeks’ time.

Fuck that, Dean's jumping off of that fuck-truck before he has that baleful puppy-eye stare aimed at him. He's heard that old _beware the bad cat, holding a grudge crap_ that those weird elderly ladies that sit on their porches and _watch you_ out in the boonies yowl at you. She may not be a cat, but she can damn well stare like one; glaring at you like she _knows things_. It's freaking creepy, man.

Turning his thoughts away from the nuisance curled up on the back seat glaring holes into the back of Sam's princess locks, Dean tried to relay the information about the hunt back through his head. It sounded like a good old fashioned Salt and Burn ghost haunting. A young girl, murdered in Allen Park by her drunk father, was attacking anybody entering her old home on South Helens Avenue who were known for being less than Stellar parents. Frankly, he gets the kid's motive, though it reminds him a little too much of that telekinetic kid Max from Michigan from all those years ago. John Winchester may have been a bit of a screw up with his sons in the fatherly department, but it could have been worse. Sam may argue against him, but it's true.

The younger Winchester was using his magic Wi-Fi attracting ability to find the kid's grave as the Impala purred her way along until the trio could find a suitable motel. They had left Bobby's yesterday morning, and the Winchesters were more than eager to stop for a while. Frankly, Dean's keen for this hunt to be over, it's only June 20th and he knows from hard experience that it can be hotter here than the 92° Fahrenheit it is today, but it's not far from pushing his comfort limit. He can function almost anywhere, but he hates sleeping in a hot room, absolutely hates it. Memories of Hell aside, he tosses and turns for hours and the crappy motels they usually bunk in almost never seem to have a functioning fucking air-con. Because that's just the Winchester luck. So yeah, Dean just wants out because he knows damn well that it'll be just his luck that a freakin' heat wave will show up just as they hunker down for the night.

It takes another few minutes of the tape deck blasting out _Shoot To Thrill_ , but they eventually come across a motel that looks tatty enough to carry relatively cheap rooms, and is far enough away from the centre of town that some questionable things can be over looked; while still looking like it may have a fucking decent shower. Because really, that's all Dean really wants in his life right now, just decent water pressure. They stopped the God damn Apocalypse, surely it's not too much for a man to ask to have good water pressure?

But of course, by the time they actually leave behind the equally tatty looking man behind the check in desk, it's becoming more apparent that this is one of those places that tries hard to look like they might be somewhat decent, but really, there hasn't been an earnest clean here since the decade the place was built in. Which, from the jamming lock, rickety table, solid mattresses, grotesque wallpaper and questionable carpet stains, was a long, long time ago.

No nice shower for Dean, then.

He wouldn't put it past the dicks in Heaven to do this just to make him miserable. The thought alone makes him smirk, imagining several angels in plumber get-ups running around purposefully sabotaging his shower out of spite for stopping the God squad's retirement plan, makes him feel a little better. He almost secretly hopes one of them is listening to the thought, frowning, he cuts that off sharply; he wants none of those douches in his head.

Sam is glancing in his direction as he dumps his duffel on the sick coloured comforter of the closest bed, turning to frown down at the way the duffel sounds like it's dropping onto concrete rather than cotton, before depositing his precious laptop on the table with an air that he doesn't trust it to support the weight.

The stupid black ball of overjoyed fluff was hovering around Dean's feet, snuffling at the carpet eagerly, but not straying too far away either. He wants to be annoyed with it just for being near him, but then it looked up at him as if to say 'I don't like this place' and he grits his teeth because for fuck's sake he _agrees_ with it whole-heartedly.

What were those first signs of madness? Talking to yourself? Because he's mentally talking back to an animal that can't even talk back. He wonders how far off the scale that is, then shrugs because that is far from the weirdest thing he's ever done and then he wonders how far up the scale Winchesters are fated to be. Does a scale that big even exist? What's the diagnosis terms for that? _Sorry, scale not fit for purpose?_ Or just simply _Winchester, enough said?_

Sam keeps glancing at his brother, who seems to be having a staring contest with the puppy, before shaking his head in a 'I don't need to know' way and unlocking his laptop. Dean breaks from the eyelock with a scowl, grabbing a beer from his duffel and coming over to flop down on what is quite possibly the most uncomfortable chair in the whole state. He knows for a fact the most uncomfortable chair in the U.S is in Montana, but that isn't a memory he wants to revisit.

“So, get this.” Sam's voice breaks him from his thoughts again, and he sips his beer with a dip of the head at his brother to carry on. “I searched for the girl's grave site on the towns archive I hacked into on the way over here. Turns out she's buried behind the old house she lived in. Most of the houses around that area are new, but some are actually way older than they look. The one we want is exposed as hell though, we won't be able to take flash-lights, and we'll have to book it out of there.”

Dean sighs heavily, trying to ignore the small weight of paws standing on the toe of his right boot. “Perfect” he growls irritatedly, if there's one thing worse than digging up a body, it's digging up a body in a residential area with no lights and a high chance of being arrested. “Well, it's like, what? Four? Don't know about you, but I plan on doing nothing else for the rest of the day.” He means it too. He's been driving for hours, his feet are killing him.

There isn't much else to do with the day anyway, Bobby put them on this case after another hunter had already interviewed all of the victims, but dropped out to help his cousin, another hunter, with a Water Spirit the next state over. After following up with another one of the victim's relatives, it was pretty clearly an angry spirit. And there's only so much you could do to prepare for that until later in the evening.

It's still taking a long time for that to settle into his mind. To be able to wait for a few hours without half expecting another plague, or some other apocalyptic omen to come breathing down their neck. The world wasn't ending, Sammy was still suffering nightmares, and Hell was a strictly off the books conversation topic at the moment, but the younger Winchester was _safe_. And God, Dean swore he would never take another minute like this for granted again. Sure, Cas was concerned that Raphael was trying to kill them all, but there wasn't many physical signs of this on Dean's sphere of things that he was able to intervene in. And, until there was something more he could do, it wasn't really his fight to jump into the middle of. He was concerned about the Seraph, but distracting the guy wasn't high on his to-do list, even if the bastard had ignored a prayer or two that he come down and have a break. It's not improving Dean's mood of dealing with this rat that he's now being ignored.

But, then again, you never could tell with Castiel when he would show up.

The constant blanking shouldn't bother the hunter; Castiel's a big boy, he can take care of himself, and like hell does Dean need to lean on anyone but his brother. But it's shoving another issue into his face, this one coming with it's own sirens and warning lights, and it's _really_ damn hard to ignore. The apocalypse, and the angel's waning Grace, had bound the members of Team Free Will together. Taking on the world one dick at a time... it had kept them with each other. And now that it was over, there was nothing really to hold them all together.

Well, that wasn't totally true in Sam's case, there's an air of obligatory loyalty with family, especially in the Winchester clan (Bobby included). Dean's been secretly afraid that the younger Winchester would abandon the hunter life the second the apocalypse ended. But apparently, spending nearly two hundred and fifty days separated from his older brother in Hell, and the constant threat that at least one of the brothers would be killed during the apocalypse, seemed to make Sam more eager to stick by his older brother for the foreseeable future. And Dean has absolutely no problem with that; he would have a veritable meltdown if Sam up and left suddenly after all of the pressure of the last few years. After all this crap, Sam deserves to stop if he wants to. Dean would kill to give it too him. But Christ, not yet. He's not ready, Dean's just got him back, and they've got people to save. The job never stops and the idea that Sam could just pretend that none of this life existed and could stop infuriated part of the older Winchester. But, right now, Dean's content enough to let it go. They're not splitting up, not yet, and God that's all he really wants right now.

But _Cas_ , Cas is different. There isn't the obligation of family blood to the Winchester's that Sam and Dean have. And sometimes Dean lets it wander around his mind that these two humans had fallen onto the angel's back burner, and now they had, how long would it be until they fell off completely? Castiel's always had his own life to lead, bigger things afoot and all that. Why _would_ he come back?

Honestly, the fact that the Seraph's fought back Hell to rescue not just Dean, but later, _Sam_ as well, _and_ had resurrected Bobby, should have been more than enough to convince him that the angel would always come back eventually. In fact, Sam had given him an 'I can't believe that you even thought of that, Dean, I didn't know you could be so stupid, the guy's practically a Winchester, the poor bastard' look when he'd offhandedly mentioned it a few days ago.

Still, Dean has a few abandonment issues to keep nice and strong inside of his mind, so the idea never quite goes away, even if the rest of him doesn't believe the angel would leave them permanently. The guy was busy fighting a war, there is only so much he can do at once. Seriously, Dean. Give the guy some space.

Shrugging his thoughts away from the from the troubling situation with the Seraph, the man turned in his chair to glare down at the joyful little face staring back at him. Why couldn't the angel pick something else to rescue? A crow, or mouse, or something else they could just pretend escaped. Dogs weren't his forte, Sam had had an obsession with getting one since they were children, but that wasn't for Dean. Dogs had always seemed like too much work, and to be honest, his dealings with Hell-hounds hadn't done his love for them any favours what so ever.

But she was a dog. And what was worse, she was a chick's dog, small and fluffy. It wouldn't even be useful to them, the only this this thing could potentially rid them of is a rat in a particularly disgusting excuse for a motel room. It couldn't help track, or even protect their rooms, or the Impala. It was too... _Cute_. All soulful eyes, and perky ears and wagging tail. It was the least manliest animal the Seraph could have dragged back with him, part of Dean was inclined to be suspicious the ass had done it on purpose. Though, the angel never had much grasp over social stigmas and concepts, it probably hadn't even occurred to him that the Righteous man might have a problem with babysitting a useless lapdog.

The pair continued to stare at each other until his brother let out a sharp breath. The older Winchester knew the sound of a snort of amusement escaping without permission when he heard one and snapped his pissed stare to his brother. “What?” he ground out forcefully.

Sam tried and failed to keep the amusement off his face, the emotion causing his face to screw up as he tried to fold his massive frame to hide behind the laptop screen blocking Dean's view. “Nothing. Just, she's like Cas junior with all that staring.” The bastard was snickering silently, Dean could see his shoulders shaking, Dick.

“Bitch.” He snapped, his eyes returning to the little animal with even more hatred than before, but, if she noticed, she didn't show it. Instead, she began mouthing at his boot lace, tugging at the strands and shaking her head. Stumbling around his shoe when the shakes were too much for her puppy paws to handle, though her happy little yips continued regardless. Dean tried to keep his anger up, nudging her away with his boot gently, a silent scolding for nibbling his best boot laces. God forbid he actually say anything out loud, can't have Sam thinking he's 'rehabilitating' her or 'training' her or whatever other crap the younger Winchester would start spouting off about. He'd been looking at those pretentious, patronising dog handling books with stupid names like _When A Good Dog Goes Bad_. It doesn't really help the younger Winchester's case that there had been another book along side it declaring in huge blue and white text _Does God Ever Speak Through Cats_? Maybe Dean should have brought Castiel a copy, if only to see his face reading the title.

The terrier doesn't get the message. Pouncing clumsily onto his boot again and snapping up the soggy lace, her front paws slipped outwards until her chest was resting against the top of his foot, and she's too uncoordinated to shimmy off. Undeterred, the creature continued to mouth the fabric, staring up at him with an illegal amount of trust considering they've had her for so little time.

He would not acknowledge the little puppy was persistent, nor that his eyes softened the tiniest bit as she gave up on the boot lace, still draped over his foot, huge soft brown eyes watching him. He wouldn't. Instead, the older Winchester forced out a rough grumble, sliding his foot out from under her carefully and standing. “I guess you want me to feed you too? Freakin,' Fido.” The Scottie's little tail began wagging eagerly, the motions making her already stumbling walk even more wobbly as she trailed after him. Grumbling, the Winchester stalked over to the far side of the room, making a show of moodily pulling out the puppy kibble and ignoring the tiny creature staring at him with nothing short of adoration.

He misses his younger brother's quiet, “soft old Jerk.” And that was probably to the best of Sam's health.

–

The conclusion of the case isn't nearly as clean as Dean would like. Though, while sipping his beer in the motel room afterwards, he admits it went fairly well considering their usual outcomes.

After having packed the Impala, the pair had driven out to South Helens Avenue, Scottie in the back seat because the damn thing hadn't stopped _whining_ when they'd left her alone. The actual digging of the grave was hard, lack of lights meaning lots of stubbed toes and muffled swearing between the two Winchesters, but it hadn't been as torturous as Dean had feared it would be. Bruised piggies aside.

They'd purposefully left it slightly later than usual, and it was maybe half an hour before the first light would start easing the night back into day when they'd finished. The spirit hadn't even bothered them, and for half a moment, the brothers thought that everything was going to actually go _perfectly_ for once.

And, honestly, Dean has no idea why he'd ever had that thought to begin with.

Still, it hadn't gone too badly by even normal standards. The grave had been dug, coffin lid creaking as they pried it open, releasing a smell that should never have been allowed to exist. Before they'd heaved themselves out, poured in the lighter fluid and salt and quickly packed everything, bar a cheap lighter, away into frayed old duffel bags.

They would need to leg it when it was lit. This was too residential an area, and staying to fill in the hole was too risky. Even if someone did notice the fire, there wasn't much chance that someone would actually bother to extinguish it when they realised it was the lawn apparently burning and not the house itself. At least, not until the fire and salt had done their jobs.

A last glance around proved they had everything they'd brought with them, before Sam flicked the lighter, dropped the small device in, before the pair had turned tail, making a dash to the Impala through the darkness.

Which would have been fine, if Dean hadn't suddenly become a dog magnet. Because, one moment they were running across the neighbour's driveway to the side of the car, the next a fucking monster of a Rottweiler had shot out to the end of it's chain. The dog thankfully didn't bark, but it was growling menacingly, even as it's sudden appearance from a freakishly well hidden dog house had Sam tripping over the chain as the monster leapt at Dean.

The younger Winchester's trip had tugged the dog back and stalled it, somewhat unintentionally, the two seconds or so it took Dean to get out of it's reach, and as Sam leapt to his feet and booked it towards the Impala Dean was currently leaping into, the Rottweiler hit the end of it's chain with a metallic snap. Dean had the Impala purring by the time Sam skidded around to the passenger side and slammed into the closed door, the Scottie yapping tiny puppy barks on the back seat at the other dog even though she wasn't physically tall enough to see out of the window. The dog had started barking; a great, deep, _thuuming_ sound that pounded into the duo's ears that had become hypersensitive in the dark and silent night.

The noise attracted attention, and even as the Impala was fading into the distance, a few house lights in the dog owner's house came on. Dean had been swearing a blue streak, gripping the steering wheel so tightly Sam had looked worried it may snap straight off of the steering column.

And okay. He may have been a little bit glad in that moment that at least the mutt they'd got lumbered with wasn't capable of mauling him to death. Because once is more than enough, thank you very fucking much.

Or maybe she was. Now that was the lamest way Dean could go; _Here Lies Dean Winchester, Mauled By Living Shoe Brush_. Hell, maybe his Man Card could have it's own tiny grave next to his.

This was probably another one of those signs of madness. Well, shit.

Now though, Sam was glancing over the salt line on the motel room's window. The apocalypse maybe over, but there were some things that were never going to change. Apparently satisfied, the younger Winchester barely mumbled a “'Night, Dean” before falling onto his mattress and was out cold by the time Dean had even reached his bed. Dean was jealous of the kid's skill.

It had long since passed dawn, and after a short squabble over shower rights, the pair had been ready to sleep all through the day. Dean sighed out a “night, Sammy.” dropping his now empty brown beer bottle onto the puke coloured carpet, the hunter turned off the bed side lamp and curled into his own solid excuse for a mattress, the only light in the room coming from a pale sliver of light creeping in between the closed patchwork curtains.

The room smelt of dust and damp, and it was twenty degrees too hot. But it was blessedly silent, with the exception of Sam's muffled snores. Well, for all of five seconds.

_Whine_

The hunter grit his teeth. There was no way that stupid mutt was making him move now, the thing could cry all night long if it wanted, there was no way he was letting it up here with him. And he knew that was _exactly_ what the little bitch wanted. The infant animal was pawing at the corner of the comforter hanging down near to his pillow, whining short, high pitched squeaks of abject misery and abandonment.

_Whine..._

'Fuck, fuckfuckfuck.' Growling, Dean rolled onto his side, picking up his pillow and mashing it over his head, if he ignored it, the damn thing would stop.

And for a moment Dean actually believed the pillow was working.

_Whine_

“Damn it!” He snapped into his pillow, there was no way in hell, Dean Winchester, bad-ass hunter of forever, would give into something so God damn small. Castiel will be damn lucky if Dean doesn't kill the thing.

...Whi- _ine..._

Damn it all!

The puppy gave a surprised squeak when the hunters large hand wrapped around it easily and plucked it off the floor as carelessly one would a discarded sock that had been tossed at the laundry hamper and missed. Dropping it on the other ratty pillow across from him, Dean glared hatefully through the darkness at the shadowed, huge puppy eyes being aimed his way. “There. _Happy now?_ ” The bite to his voice was softer than normal, Dean would die before he let Sam know he had the damn thing up here.

She did seem content, little half-flopped, half-perked ears twitching happily at him, before she stumbled on top of the comforter and curled up leaning against the lump that was the hunters forearm underneath the itchy, stained fabric.

Dean took a deep breath and counted to five, before he decided he didn't care, at least the Bitch had stopped _crying_ at him now. He was too tired for this, next time she can sleep on the damn floor. There is no way in Hell that he is letting this stupid thing getting used to sleeping all over him or his bed. Beds are for people, not for freaking mutts.

And if anyone said he had been beaten into submission by something so small, Dean would likely shoot them dead.

–

Needless to say, Dean wasn't at all pleased to be dragged away from the two strippers showing off their talents in his dream, but as soon as he's aware of the groaning voice of his younger brother, Dean knows getting back to sleep is out of the equation. Gratefully, he realises that Sam's actually grumbling into his phone rather than in his sleep, and Dean stretches like a cat that had spent it's day basking in the sun. Joints stiff and aching from the long nights work.

Sitting up, Sam gives him an off-handed wave of acknowledgement without breaking the conversation going on between him and the other person. The Scottie isn't on his bed, but is curled up around his duffel bag on the floor. The black menace spots him standing up and bings over to greet him. Her little tail is waving like a hyped up windshield wiper as she all but pounces on his foot and nibbles on the hem of his sweats. Her little paws are smaller than his big toe and that is not _adorable_ damn it. Hunters don't do adorable. Christ.

Dean can sense his brother's eyes on his back, and grumbles half-heartedly as he nudges the small thing off of his foot. “Yeah, all right, stupid Tyke.” Despite being brushed off, she yips happily at his voice being aimed her way, and instead starts running around the room excitedly, trailing him as he grabs some clean clothes and disappears to have a shower, closing the door just in front of her nose. Dean will tolerate her in the motel room. But he is _not_ having the damn thing watch him strip off and shower, that's just fucking weird.

And yeah, fucking crappy water pressure, again.

His shower only takes a few minutes, but by the time he's stepping out, (Sam had already taken most of the hot water, the bastard), Sam is packing their things. “That Bobby?”

Sam is shoving the puppy kibble Dean left on the table into his duffel, trying to discretely drop one or two biscuits that the puppy eagerly hoovers up noisily. The Kiss-ass is still trying to win her affection then. Dean doesn't get the problem, he'd kill for the amount of distaste the puppy aims at Sam. “Yeah, turns out a bunch of weird crap just randomly started going down in Lordsburg, and we're the nearest ones to it.” He sounds a bit peeved, and Dean doesn't blame him, the plan had been to go back to Bobby's, it was a two day drive to Sioux Falls as it is, but New Mexico adds another almost five hours to that.

“He thinking demons?” They haven't gone after demons since the big swan dive. Hitting up the big leagues again makes Dean's skin crawl uneasily.

Sam frowns at laptop his thoughtfully, glancing at his duffel, before reluctantly accepting that it's not going to fit in the bag with the kibble and he'll have to carry it separately. “Not sure. There haven't been any deaths yet.”

Dean frowned, shoving his old clothes back into his own duffel, ignoring the small tugs on his jeans, from their resident rodent problem. “Dunno, Sammy. Doesn't sound like our type of gig.” _Follow The Body Count_ is their usual M.O. Not just sorting out every Tim, Dick and Harry's small supernatural daily stressors. Bigger picture and all that.

Sighing, the younger hunter shouldered his duffel, picking up his laptop with the same arm. “Bobby seems to think it is. Bit weird that it started up when we're so close.” It's a hollow point, Dean can tell Sam's just as sceptical, but, so soon after finishing this anti-climatic hunt, Dean doesn't really feel like diving into a demon hoard right now either. They'd agreed to start off with small fry, and if nothing else, this feels like small fry.

Making a show of grumbling, Dean shouldered his own bag, pulling the Impala's keys from his jacket. “Fine, but pie first.” He compromises, a final look confirming they haven't left anything behind, and following his brother out into the afternoon sun, Scottie on his heels.

He doesn't actually see it, but Dean can tell from the way Sam's head tilts upwards that his brother just rolled his eyes, no doubt at his dietary choices. Grinning at the familiarity of the action, they chucked the gear in the trunk, before sliding into the front. Half way through closing his Baby's door, he remembers Castiel's blood sucking flea, and puts his hand back out just in time to prevent hitting the poor thing with the door. The puppy shies away a little from where she had stood on tiny paws to try and climb into his door, before returning to the pose eagerly, tongue lolling pathetically out of the side of her mouth.

Sam is grinning beside him like an idiot and Dean damn well knows it. Scowling, he picks up the chubby creature and dumps it on his brother's lap before slamming his door closed with an amused scowl. His younger brother jumps slightly, the puppy still doesn't like him all that much, and she shies from him. Sam glares at him, before slowly reaching out to let the puppy sniff his index finger, she pulls her ears back, but sniffs the offered digit. Becoming bolder, Sam gently rubs his finger under her chin and her ears raise and her tail wags happily again.

By the time Sam puts her in the back the kid is beaming like a child on Christmas, Dean hurriedly hides his slightly affectionate smile for his brother who hasn't smiled like that since before going to Hell, behind a scowl at the pair of them. He's not sure if Sam buys it or not.

Damn, now he's actually, sort of grateful for the stupid Scottie. They need to get rid of it soon before Sam gets any more attached.

They drive past two different Diners before Dean spots one with a sign in the window declaring _Today's Special: Pecan Pie._ Sam sighs at him, but Dean is so busy trying to not to drown in his own saliva that he doesn't think about the Scottie following them loyally until a pretty young brunette waitress stops them just before they get to the booth they'd being aiming for. “I'm sorry, there's no dogs allowed in here.”

Dean falters for a second, glancing down traitorously at the mutt, before the look is gone and he plasters on his most adorable, _but I'm cute_ expression and picks the small creature up. “Aw, c'mon, have a heart, she's too tiny to cause any harm. And she gets lonely in the car.” He finishes it with his most flirtatious smile that has her blush and look at the puppy instead. It proves to be a mistake because the damn thing seems to _know_ that she needs to ramp up the cute factor to max, her eyes down-right huge with want and love, ears perked hopefully.

The waitress gives a look at Dean's flirty smile and Sam's huge puppy eyes of his own and she caves spectacularly. Sighing, she smiles at them and ushers them into the both furthest away from the counter, “Fine, fine, but don't let her wander.” She pauses to glance at the small creature, and coos at her softly before taking their order and leaving.

Sam is smiling again when the waitress leaves and Dean glares at him in response. “Maybe we can ditch breaking and entering and just convince people to let us in using her, she could be the Winchester Mascot.”

“Bitch”

“Jerk”

The waitress, who Dean finally notes is called Cindy, arrives back with their coffee, Dean's Pie and Burger meal and Sam's freaky ass salad shake rabbit food and coffee. She offers one final coo at the puppy, who for once, isn't shying away like she expects to be struck. Before she turns and leaves them alone, her phone number on the back of Dean's napkin. The Winchester smirks at his younger sibling's exasperated eye roll, and absently drops the puppy on the window side seat of the booth, nearly leaping out of his skin when he realises Castiel is suddenly very much occupying that space.

 _“Damn it, Cas!_ ” He bites out, dropping the mutt on Castiel's thigh half in surprise, she yips in greeting and snuffles at his hand until he induldges her with a stroke.

The angel narrows his eyes at the irate human, before nodding at the younger Winchester with a gravelly, “Hello, Sam.” Adding a “Hello, Dean” half a second later, as if he's not sure why Dean seemed so put out to see him.

“Hey, Cas.” Sam offers instead, his face gaining a light frown the longer he stares at the angel. And Dean gets why, the Seraph looks even more dishevelled than usual, trench coat and shirt sporting more wrinkles and slight frays than before, the poor bastard looks spent. “Everything all right?”

The angel glances tiredly at Sam, before running long fingers gently over the eager bundle on his lap, some of the tension in his shoulders seems to bleed away the longer he keeps it up. “The war is...not easy.” He doesn't seem to want to explain details and both Winchesters don't really want to know. “I...There is a small lull in the fighting, I thought I could, “Check In” with you both.”

Dean takes the moment to really examine his friend, and he doesn't think he's seen the angel look quite so lost for a long time, it kindles something fierce and protective that Dean usually feels when something is bothering or threatening any of his make-shift family. The emotion kind of blindsides him, he can almost feel the physical blow to his Man Card. But, the angel looks worn, not injured and that's more than enough for Dean to shrug off and change the subject. “Good, you thought of a name yet?” He can sense a few 'disappointed Sammy rays' bouncing off of him, but Castiel seems more grateful.

The puppy is gnawing on the button on his left coat sleeve, looking up at him with over joyed eyes and wagging her tail as he continues to stroke her gently, lips tugging up minutely at discovering her wing shaped dog tag, running careful fingers over the _Castiel_ engraving above Bobby's address. Sam's fucking idea, not Dean's. Hell the older Winchester hadn't actually seen the tag closely, Sam just wandered off and did it, slipping it onto the collar Dean'd grabbed. The tag screams _she's being kept_ and she damn well is _not_. “I am unsure” Castiel continues on oblivious to Dean's mental objections. “Though, I had thought of giving her the name 'Uzziel'”

Dean screws up his face, they had agreed an angelic name, but he was not going to be yelling _Uzziel!_ In public if the stupid thing ever wandered off. That was a blow to his masculinity Dean Winchester would not take. A sharp kick from Sam under the table has Dean glaring at him in question, Cas is staring at him shyly, tired blue eyes looking for approval, _damn it._ “Uzziel, huh? Particular reason?” His voice is nonchalant, he's struggling to not sound condescending and though Sam's not impressed, Cas seems to lose a little more tension. As if this had been weighing on him.

“Uzziel was the angel of Faith.” He explained softly, sad reminiscence colouring his gravelly tone. “She died beside me when we laid siege to Hell. She saved my life.” The memory must have been playing behind his eyes, because Castiel's usual intensity is blocked by a long enough blink that it strikes Dean as odd before he can work out why.

Dean internally folded. Now there was no way he could complain against it. Dean Winchester knows he's a bit of an asshole. But he's not _that_ much of an asshole thank you very freaking much. Even if Sam's icy stare seems to say otherwise, and by the way, screw you Sam. It's brief, but the older Winchester takes the moment to entertain the idea of this chick not sticking up for her brother in Hell; Dean may never have been saved from Hell, Sam would have fallen completely into Ruby's hands straight away, the Apocalypse would happen, but this time would never be stopped. Maybe the angel's would have taken Adam from the start.. _.Dean could still be in Hell_. The thought makes his blood freeze, and his throat won't let him answer the angel's almost embarrassingly hopeful look, blood rushing through his ears. Dean's seen some shit in his life but his most traumatic recurring nightmare is being left behind in Hell.

Sam, thank fucking God, saves his ass. “That's a great name for her, Cas.” He gives the angel a genuine smile, because it's actually kind of a heartfelt, not to mention human, thing to do. Castiel's blue eyes seem to soften at the younger brother, and Dean kicks himself for not manning up.

“It is, Cas.” Dean admits, pushing his fries between them in silent offering, because he's been with Cas to enough diners to know that he won't order his own food, but will sometimes steal Dean's out of curiosity. “Uzi, huh?” He tests the nickname on his tongue, now that he can pass off as manly, he's always wanted an Uzi pistol anyway. “I like it.”

Castiel stares at him as if he's just given him leave to actually keep the damn mutt. Which, _fuck, he may have actually just done that_. That was not the freaking plan!

But it's also odd to see an angel embarrassed about something, and it's kind of awesome too.

The Winchesters just doesn't understand that, although “Uzzi” and “Uzi” sound identical, “Uzzi” also means _The Lord Is My Strength._ And Sam and Dean's agreed nickname soothes Castiel far more than any simple word has any right to.

“Uzzi.” Castiel murmurs, stroking the small Scottie curled on his lap gently, smiling for the first time since he left the Singer yard days ago. The small terrier tilts her head curiously at the sound, she doesn't recognise it as her name yet. But she will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little fillerish. I swear, there's not a great deal of plot involved in this story. Sorry.  
> Just to make it clear: Dean and Cas don't know they're both calling her by different names.


	5. Spelling Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of pizza, witches and surprising devlopments.

A “Lull in the fighting” turns out to be a quite bit longer than the two brothers thought. So much so that Castiel actually stuck with them for the rest of the day, it's actually kind of weird, they haven't seen the idiotic flight risk for ages and now it seems like he's stuck to their feet. He even stays in the Impala the just under six hours it takes to get to the thankfully, slightly cooler, Lordsburg. Dean _knows_ Cas doesn't like travelling in his baby for long periods, and sometimes when he's feeling generous he supposes that if he had wings and could flit from one side of the Earth to the other in a minute like a freaking moth on a sugar hype, he might be against it too. But, as it is, generosity isn't one of the founding factors of Dean's personality; so usually it feels like a slight against his Impala, and that drones out the tiny sympathy he has for the angel.

It's so unusual that the Winchesters don't quite no what to make of it.

The angel is staring out of the window, seemingly lost in thoughts; probably drawing up mental battle plans even now. He may be here physically speaking, but Dean hasn't really seen too much of that socially stunted supernatural creature lurking behind those huge blue eyes of his. He's barely said five words since they started driving, it's not even like it's out of character, but Dean finds it damn annoying anyway. Castiel kind of reminds the hunter of a hotel with a vacancy sign hanging out front, _Vessel In Prime Location, Currently Vacant Inside_. If the older Winchester didn't value his life the little he currently does, he would be debating whether or not he could live through finding a sharpie and writing that across his stupid blank face.

It's not completely fair, because the angel is paying just enough attention to this freaking plane of existence to keep his hand is absently stroking the small bundle tucked up against the side of his thigh. Uzi has been fucking blissed out since the angel showed back up, mellowed completely like some junkie finally getting a hit after a full week of withdrawal symptoms and hasn't whined once at all over the travelling. Even better, the travel sickness seems to have vanished completely.

Dean is now sure that she was just being intentionally difficult whenever her stupid angel wasn't around. Yet another reason on his list to _lose_ the stupid thing somewhere. Maybe Lordsburg will have a large enough park that Dean can palm her off to someone without Sam knowing.

Grimacing, Dean glances back at the Grace bound morons in the back and changes his mind. There's no way in Hell, Earth, or Heaven, Dean is pulling that stunt until Castiel goes back to la la land. If he can't get away with the sharpie then something tells him that this is a little out of his league.

The drive seems to pass quickly, despite Captain Grumpy glaring at whoever is unlucky enough to pull up along side them. There was an air of relaxation in the Impala, classic rock softly mixing with the deep purr of the engine, the air warm and sleepily comfortable and for the first time in what feels like forever. There is no tension between any of them. Sure, Castiel seems to be hoarding enough tension for all of them for the situation in Heaven, but there isn't any tension _between_ them, no secrets, no plots, no impending sacrifice of anyone's soul. The hunter wallowed in it the entire drive.

Dean's almost, but not quite, disappointed when they arrive at a motel. The building looks newer than the one from the day before, and there's actually a chance of a decent shower here. Dean's famished something fierce and the second they get into their room, (for once, the one right on the end of the line), Dean orders take out from the nearest place he can find. The room is way cleaner than he expects too, the pale blue carpet only harbouring one or two mystery stains, the beds actually feel like beds and the cream and brown wallpaper is at least low on the scale of _World's Ugliest Patterns._

Sam sets up his laptop after supervising Uzi stretching her legs and taking care of business outside, and begins pulling up information on the “weird crap” Bobby's sent them here to check out. Because his brother is a research freak and seems to be on a mission to get this case done as quickly as possible.

Dean just wants his damn pizza.

Castiel is perched on the edge of Dean's bed, Scottie wandering over and pawing at his leg eagerly until he figures out that she wants to sit with him and he gingerly picks her up. Dean wonders how much care the angel must use to pick up something so fragile when he is made of such pure supernatural strength. His actions with the dog are still a little jerky, as if he's not entirely sure if what he's doing is the right thing, but the touches seem at least a little bit more confident than when he showed up with the damn runt.

Sam's shake of the head has Dean's attention again, and he realises he's just staring at the angel after all the times he's snapped at Cas about staring at him. Dean scowls, picking out a beer and taking the cap off with probably more violence than was strictly necessary; Sam fails to hide his smirk. “All right Princess,” Dean rumbles warningly, “we dealing with something from the horror genre or not?” Nothing winds Sammy up more than slighting against his weird research fetish.

Exasperation is clear on his brother's face as he stares down at his laptop screen. Success. “Dude, we just got here.” Bristling at the commentary striking up from his patronising older brother, Sam's expression narrows on Dean's condescending smirk like a laser point. “If you actually _helped_ we could figure this out quicker.”

“You know me, Sammy. I don't roll that way”

Sam sighs as if defeated and returns to his laptop, he won't be dragged into this argument again. He won't.

Castiel glances up at the two brothers at the table, watching them bicker with something like fondness. “If it helps, I can sense no Demons in this town.”

Dean glances his way. “That doesn't exactly narrow it down that much.” There is the usual bite to Dean's tone, but like always the angel isn't phased in the slightest. It used to piss Dean off the first few times they met. How times have changed.

“Most of this stuff is kind of petty actually” Sam interrupts, frowning at the web page gossip article he's found, tastefully entitled _Week's Unluckiest Sap._ “But it all seems to be about one guy, like, his house burned down yesterday morning, then he reported his car stolen right after.”

Dean shrugged. “Unlucky, but not exactly screaming supernatural at me either, Sammy.”

Sam shook his head, princess hair waving around like something out of one of those tacky hair commercials, and a little voice inside Dean's head is whispering _Because You're Worth It_. “It gets weirder. Like, his house insurance was declared fraudulent, just before he got fired from the office he was working at, then it just... spontaneously burned to the ground.” Sam paused tensely as a knock of the door announced their food, hunter's reflexes cooling it down after the sudden leap to attention. “That _does_ seem a bit like some thing’s messing with the guy.”

Dean casually checked the gun in his waistband and hummed an agreement, peaking at the delivery guy through the window before pulling open the door and paying the guy. He's not as cautious as he usually would be, he's got a God damn _angel_ sitting on his motel bed for Christ's sake, he doubted the guy could get within five feet of the door if he was possessed without the angel noticing. Well, Dean thinks as he watches the scrawny kid count his pay, he hopes so. Waving the acne riddled, teenage delivery kid off, he dumped the two pizza boxes beside Sam's laptop, flipped open the top box, and began devouring his way through his 'every meat' pizza.

Grimacing at his brother's lack of any form of table manners, Sam pulled his own pizza box out from under Dean's like it was some tasty form of jenga, his own a Veggie Supreme, and began munching away at it.

“So, you thinkin' witch?” Dean managed to mumble between chews before shovelling more food in, eyes sliding over to Cas who was staring at Dean like he didn't know what to make of him. There was a moment of plain watching, half a slice stationary between the hunter's teeth, before those curious blues dropped to his pizza. Dean felt his eyebrows rise to his hairline, you could never tell whenever Cas was around for food if he would try and steal a bit in curiosity, or destroy it in full lecture mode of _Dean, this is appalling for your health_. Hesitant, but hopeful this was more intrigue than enmity, Dean picked up another slice with his other hand and silently offered it out to the angel.

Watching the exchange with a wary glance, Sam nodded, set on getting his point across whether Dean wants to hear it or not. “Does seem that way.” Sam can't help observing the scene though. The brothers watched carefully as the angel slid the puppy off, setting down her on the floor, and padded curiously up to Dean's side of the table and slid in beside him, still eyeing his pizza slice. “The, er, article mentioned the guy might have been cheating on his wife.”

The older hunter's attention is way to split though. “Do you want a slice, Cas?” Dean pushed eventually, seeing as the angel wasn't actually going to take it from him within this decade, glancing at the stupid thing like it held the answer to the unanswerable riddle that is Dean's dietary choices in life.

The angel frowned. “I don't require sustenance, Dean.” He says it as if Dean should know not to even bother asking.

The man snorts, almost grinning at the angel. Because this is something the older hunter knows he'll win. “Doesn't stop you stealing my fries at every diner we stop at, dude. Try it. Won't kill you.”

Castiel was staring at it as if he doubted that, but obediently took it from Dean, his eyes gaining an intensity that made Dean think he was examining the chemical make-up of the damn thing. The staring stopped, and the angel hesitantly nibbled the edge, eyes widening at the cascade of tastes like they always do whenever Dean manages to argue him into trying something new, before taking another, larger bite.

A grin broke out on Dean's face in earnest. “See, Sam. _Everyone_ loves pizza.”

“Stop corrupting the angel, Dean” Sam's dead-panned disapproval was rolling off him in waves. Castiel took another bite in the back ground and panicked slightly that the cheese stretched but didn't break.

Dean's grin didn't fade, but he took another gargantuan bite of his own, the action equivalent to flipping Sam off without physically moving to do so.

The younger hunter sighed, the universe set against him, and tried to push the details of the case back to the forefront of the conversation. “The couple owned a bar, before it closed down six years ago. If I was using Voodoo on my ex...” He's doing that _I'm speaking slowly so your irritating excuse for a brain can understand that I'm both annoyed and scorned_. Dean scowls.

“Witches, fabulous. Because they're always freakin' _terrible_.” Dean growled, his hatred for the bitches was well known. “I've been in Wendigo larders that've been more sanitary that most covens!”

Castiel swallowed the mouthful of pizza and turned curious eyes to the younger Winchester. “You believe the witch is using the derelict building?”

Sam nodded, swallowing his own food. “Yeah, but, it's not like she's actually caused any harm.”

Dean paused, turning suspicious eyes to his brother. “She's a _witch_ , Sam. You _know_ what they're like.”

Squaring his shoulders, Sam turned peeved eyes to his stubborn older brother. “Dean! The guy sounded like a Jerk, she's not hurt a _person_ from what we can tell. Witches are a pain in the ass, I know that, Dean. But she's a human! We are not killing a human.” Sam's tone was adamantly stiff with surety. “Seriously we do this _every_ time.”

Growling, Dean took a vicious bite of his pizza, chewing as if it had personally offended him. “Fine!” He snapped out eventually, swallowing, “But this bitch tries _anything_ I'm putting a bullet through her skull.”

Sam nodded in agreement because, yeah she may not have hurt anyone, but if she made a move against them when they went to threaten her into stopping, it was a totally different story.

Castiel was finishing off his slice, pulling off a stray piece of sausage before he popped the last piece in his mouth, then handing it down to see what Uzziel would make of it. He was sure she had never had this _pizza_ either, and was keen for her reaction. The Scottie stood up against his chair leg in anticipation as he lowered his hand, and she only took half a sniff of the meat before she scoffed it down. Licking her lips happily, she glanced back up at him, eager for more. The angel was unprepared for the huge puppy stare she sent up at him, and he was filled with the irrational urge to give her as much of the unhealthy stuff as he could physically collect.

Instead, he glanced towards Dean's pizza box, despairing a little that the human had just picked up the last slice. There was a small part of him curious about how exactly the human had managed to eat the whole thing so quickly, Dean never does things by half, but mostly he was warring with himself about whether or not to 'zap' off to get more.

This was ridiculous, he was a soldier, a _warrior_ , and he can't even look the puppy in the eye. But she's also still watching him with unfiltered adoration. Steeling himself, he reached over and picked off a large piece of sausage from the slice Dean was trying valiantly to cram into his mouth all in one go as if just to see if he could.

 _“Hey!_ ” Dean barked muffledly, snarling at the angel for touching his food; If there is one thing other than family Dean is fiercely protective of, it's food. Dean shared one slice, two was too much. The angel, naturally, steadfastly ignored him, offering the puppy the sausage and couldn't help the small smile when she wolfed it down like the first piece and licked his fingers in a mix of attempting to get any scraps and gratitude. “Do you have to feed your stupid rat my pizza!?” Dean grouched through his chewing, though there was more amusement in his tone than actual anger.

Castiel narrowed his eyes at the hunter. “Uzziel is a dog, not a rat. She likes it.”

Dean could feel his eyebrow twitching and sighed, swallowing. “It's probably hungry.” Dean waved towards Sam's duffel, “her kibble's in there, so's her bowl, just give her a small handful.”

Sam shook his head, rushing to finish chewing as the angel stood and began pulling out the items Dean had directed him to. “Dean,” he started, tone disapproving again. “It's better for dogs to only get fed once a day. We fed her earlier.”

His older brother waved him off. “So? How would you feel only being fed once? Tell you what, man, I could not be a dog if that's the deal you get stuck with.”

Sam sighed, but resigned himself to his stubborn brothers flawed logic, resolving not to feed her tomorrow morning if he can get away with it. If Castiel was planning to hang around until then, the chances of success were slim. Shaking his head, Sam tried to get them back on track. “We checking out the bar tonight?” He checked the clock in the corner of his laptop screen. “It's almost half ten, we could be there by eleven.”

Shutting the cardboard box and shoving it away from him, Dean sighed in comfort from being somewhat full again. “Rushing into battle a bit, aren't we? We only have that article to go on, and excuse me if I don't trust something called _Week's Unluckiest Sap.”_

Castiel set Uzziel's dark bowl on the floor, and watched as she began devouring the small kibble with gusto, she certainly seemed to have Dean's love of food. That done, he glanced back to the Winchesters., “We could just pass the bar, I should be able to sense the witches work if she is indeed there. You could continue your research tomorrow if there isn't spell-work present.”

Dean was trying to get the surprise that the angel was coming on the hunt with them off of his face. He thought the angel would 'zap' back to Heaven not long after they arrived, hell, he hadn't expected the Seraph to still be in the Impala when they'd pulled up to the motel. Instead, he raised his eyebrow at Sam and fixed his voice to mimic a tacky advertisement announcer. “Angels, don't go hunting without one.”

Sam huffed out a laugh, nodding in agreement. Castiel peered at them, radiating _does not understand_ and general ire.

“Never could sleep much knowing there's a witch around anyway.” Dean grumbled good naturedly at the change of the evenings plans. There wasn't much of a reason not to go now, it was Thursday night, and this time tomorrow would be far busier than it would be now. “All right, let’s go gank this bitch, there's a Dr. Sexy marathon on tonight with my name on it.”

Gathering up their things, the quartet scrambled back into the Impala, and headed off towards the derelict bar. It was just over twenty minutes from the Impala on the quiet roads, the air heavy with heat but definitely better than the last few days.

Dean didn't know what he was expecting when they pulled up the building, but this wasn't it. The bar was on the very far outskirts of the town, many of the buildings on this stretch seemed to be in desperate need of some TLC, but beside a shifty looking homeless guy or two, there wasn't anyone else around the closer to the place they had got. It had _Witch's Hidey Hole_ written all over it.

The bar itself seemed small from the outside, one single street light raining brazen orange down in the middle of the parking lot, faintly illuminating the front of the building and bathing the rest in ominous shadows. The brick building was covered in grime, the large windows on the front were completely boarded, blocking out any view inside, small shattered glass under the sills catching the thick orange glare and glittering against the asphalt. A thick plank nailed across the door barred easy entrance and was framed by a slight overhang supported by two red poles, the paint so old it had cracked and peeled in so many places that you could tell they had once been green.

Dean cut off the Impala's engine and glanced up at the building with a whistle. “Anyone else feel like the clueless schmucks at the start of a James Wan movie?”

“Oh, Yeah” Sam answered quickly, not liking the feel of the place either.

The reassurance of Castiel's predictable “I don't understand that reference.” Made both of the brothers smirk.

“James Wan's a director of some kick ass, if a little fucked up, movies.” Dean added, glancing back at his angel who was leaning forwards in the middle of the back seat. Uzziel didn't seem to notice the shift and continued to sleep soundly next to him, full up on puppy chow and stolen pizza toppings. “So, what's the deal, Cas? We Bitch hunting tonight or not? Cause there's a rubbish TV with my name on it.”

The angel's eyes narrowed at the dilapidated building through the windshield, as if picking apart it's very existence and examining every particle for any sense of supernatural force. His expression drew into a frown and he turned back to Dean looking more than a little confused. “The building...feels odd. I can sense spell-work at play, but I can't sense the witch itself, there must be some wards shielding the space from supernatural creatures.”

“Dean, we can't leave God knows what spell running,” Sam glanced over the building again, if they were interrupting the Witch's work she may come back to investigate and they'll need to stake the place out. Not exactly fun, but he'd been half expecting one the second Bobby mentioned the case to him.

“Well, duh, Sam, bitch could be doing anything in there, let’s just go in and back the hell out of dodge before she comes back. I'd rather surprise her than get surprised by her.” He's pushing the door open as he speaks, Sam following suit and Castiel just 'zapping' out next to them. Uzziel wakes at the shift and glances up at the angel with soulful eyes. The angel struggles to ignore her and brushes her small soul with his Grace until she relaxes into sleep again.

Packing themselves full of weapons in case the witch is hiding inside or comes back, they trek up to the door. The weapons are a bit unnecessary with Castiel with them, but Dean had warned the angel before about just stealing their hunts. As if to prove the lack of need for weapons, Castiel puts a hand around the thick wood barring the entrance and pulls it off as if it's made of paper, tossing it to the side and letting Sam take point.

Yeah, the sharpie never would have worked.

The inside of the bar is, in a short description, a shit-hole.

Through the dimness, Dean can tell the building is set out in a once neat “L” shape. The floor space going straight to the back wall from where they had entered, creating a long rectangle of space until the wall turns sideways and widening the space to the right of them, leaving them in the left corner.

The bar itself seems to have been torn out years ago, leaving just a scar in the wall where the bar top had once joined it, being matched by others where the shelves that once stocked bottles of alcohol had also been removed. There's debris everywhere, pieces of the old roof having seemingly collapsed inwards from water damage over the years and what has probably been several break-ins from local kids eager to show off to their mates. The only thing that actually still looks whole is the large pool table just in front of the door. The cues are missing, and he can't see any balls either, but the green felt has being almost completely covered in chunks of rotting wood and dust, the fabric giving the warm air a thick, dank smell.

The place screams _tetanus_ rather than _evil lair_ to Dean, but it wouldn't be the first time he's found both in the same place. Keeping his steps careful through the debris, he struggles to make out what colour the floor once was, but there's so much crap covering it that it's a lost cause. Glass crunching under boots is the only sound for a moment before Dean realises he can't see any alters or chalk lines, “You sure there's something in here, Cas?”

There's a thick, uneasy silence. ' _Stupid question, Winchester_ ' he thinks a few seconds later as he catches the deer-in-headlights expression on the angel's face. It's only then he spots the faint carvings on a half turned over piece of rotting wood right under the angel's foot. Of all the things that shoot through the hunter's head in those two seconds, the thing that sticks first is the weird notion that It seems a bit absurd that Castiel is the one that's managed that instead of one of the Winchesters, and Dean promises to laugh at him later for it. The second thought is when Dean quickly realises these tiny carvings are _every-fucking-where_ , they just aren't affecting him or Sam

Then he doesn't have time to think about too much of anything at all, because Castiel goes as taught as a bow string and suddenly, something heavy and solid and huge, _smashes_ into Dean's fucking side. It doesn't settle in his that he's been batted off of his feet like an ant until he's crashing onto an old overturned booth seat, the padding, naturally, facing the wrong way up so he lands painfully on the solid under board. The wreck of wood and mouldy fabric slides backwards a yard or two on impact and Dean coughs thickly at the violent jolt.

“Sammy?” The hunter croaks half a moment later, gripping his 45. tightly, glancing over at his younger brother. Sam is a few feet from where Dean remembered last seeing him, but the sheer shock on his little brother's face has him turning to Castiel.

And _Holy shit Castiel._

Dean had never seriously entertained the thought of his best friend with wings before. It was one of those funny little details that was lost in the clutter that was whatever the next cluster-fuck disaster coming their way happened to be. He just saw _Cas_. Shoved in to Jimmy's vessel sure, but all he saw was _Castiel_. He knows it's just a mirage. That Castiel is all light and air and holy, celestial intent; but it's something he can't ever witness, not without losing his sight forever, probably his hearing too. Dean's always lived his life relying on his senses, and he just dismisses the weird _otherness_ that is the angel out of habit. It's probably a really stupid thing for someone who spends his days off cleaning his favourite vampire beheading blades.

In fact, the only time that he'd seen anything close to the true Castiel, was the great shadows of wings cast out onto the back of a barn wall covered in every sigil he'd ever known about. Back all those years ago when the angel had raised his perky ass from perdition.

The sight had terrified the fucking life out of him too, but the human had never been about to hand in his man card by telling the angel that. A man has his pride after all. Besides, Dean has the sneaking suspicion that the bastard knows _exactly_ what Dean felt at the time, it makes him grumble irritatedly whenever he thinks about it.

But, as much as the sight of lightning induced wings had seared itself into his mind; the huge, mesmerising shapes had long since slipped from his thoughts. He'd just escaped _Hell._ With Heaven tripping over itself to try and crack him apart and Lucifer deciding that this was a lovely century to take a stroll down murder lane, it can be argued that Dean had had too much on his plate to ponder over the question of an angel's apparent lack of wings.

Okay, there _were_ times that his friend would 'zap' into or out of their presence and the notion of wings would creep into the forefront of the Hunter's mind, usually when something wasn't trying to eat them and Lucifer was too busy fucking up someone else's day. These gaps were rare, but very _occasionally_ he entertained the idea of the Angel of Thursday with wings. It was a hard concept for him to grasp, because though he could hear a flap or two before or after the angel moved, there was nothing for him to judge against. There's tons of lore on angels and their wings, and he knows as well as any hunter how unreliable lore can be. So these ideas were always fleeting, the world kicking the hunter's down time in the face and demanding that he fix something that was almost unfixable.

So, yeah. Angel wings had always just been one of those things that just _wasn't._ Dean would never _see_ them, bar the moments shadows of them would flicker briefly under intense flashes of light, he would never _know_ them. And to Dean, if he couldn't see, or touch, then it wasn't important. Until he could. End of story. He was okay with that. It was just one more story about angels that he had been fed as a kid that had been a lie, and honestly, knowing that all angels were enormous dicks of different kinds of made the wing thing no big deal in comparison.

But, Dean was a Winchester, expecting any less than lies and danger from something supernatural was almost laughable. Stupid. Dangerous.

Except, now it's Cas and _suddenly very, very real._

His voice is shrill and hysteric when he finds it. _“...Well Shit, Cas!”_

The Seraph was standing, just. Half bent over with the sudden, shocking extra weight of the sudden manifestation and he was panting desperately, as if just holding them out was sapping his strength. His blue eyes were huge in complete and unbridled astonishment, an emotional cousin of _fear_ strong in his stunned gaze. Like he has no idea what the hell even just happened to him.

The angel's shaking lightly, and coupled with his shell-shocked countenance, it's the most expression Dean had even seen on the stoic angel. He can't judge though, fitting to get his mouth to work around words but his brain is just completely _seizing_ at the sheer weight of what he's seeing, eyes tracking the huge limbs attached to the angel's back instead.

For one thing, _they're freakin' enormous!_

The limbs are splayed unevenly to the sides, half stretched from where they'd exploded from his shoulder blades; the tips of the massive flight feathers are being forced to curl and bend awkwardly to fit into the suddenly cage like space, the wings seemingly swallowing up the darkness around them.

It hits Dean in that moment that the wings were black. So much so that he can't really tell just how big they are; the darkness of their surroundings making their size hard to make out clearly, but there's no mistaking that colour. And okay, yeah. The shadows of them in the barn had been black, but then, shadows generally are, and these are like the purest ebony. It's another lie in Dean's mind, these wings warring with the memories of old artwork depicting delicate, _white_ , pristine feathers. But _fuck_ if Castiel's wings aren't the most _bad-ass_ things he's ever seen. And suddenly, frail white wings on an angel seems damn ridiculous, Castiel is a warrior, not some delicate, fragile, pansy ass fairy.

Maybe he's just bias though. Or better informed. He bets Michelangelo never had to deal with these kind of problems.

The time that Dean's cascading thoughts shoot through his mind only seems to last a second or two and it feels like it's occurring in painfully slow motion. Then suddenly, it's not, time jolting back into real-time so quickly it feels almost violent and the silence, bar Cas' panting, can be broken by a pin dropping.

Castiel takes a staggering step forwards with a heavy whine in his throat, the angel's breathing is ragged and heavy and it is pushing Dean's _Freak-Out O'meter_ off of the God damn scale. The black wings flare as he steps, a natural movement that looks as if it would usually help to balance their pull against Castiel's back, but all the sudden, very solid, shift in the wings' weight does is send Castiel stumbling forwards.

Sam, who had been momentarily forgotten by the older Winchester in the sudden explosion of ebony limbs, had kept his feet and reaches the angel first. Dean wobbles to his feet, moving forwards once finally there and cursing under his breath. He's getting way too old for all of this crap.

Castiel's wild eyes lock onto them with such a feral look that Dean's step falter a little. The action saves him another impromptu flight as Castiel startles all of them, including himself, by jerking backwards away from Sam's reach to his shoulder with a look of pure _panic_ blooming across his features. His wings rush forwards with a gust of wind that plucks up debris like tissue paper, coming up as a huge, defensive, sweeping wall.

The movement catches Sam across the chest, giving him a free ride across the derelict building on an altogether different form of _Angel Airways_. Even Dean, who's falter had saved him from a similar flight, didn't have much more than a second to duck, and though he manages to keep his feet under the shockingly strong gust of air, he did get pelted with chunks of debris.

“Ow! Damn it, Cas!” The elder Winchester manages to growl. “What the hell?!” The pain was shocking him out of his surprise and he grappled his mind out of _Panic Mode_ and into _Sort This The Fuck Out Mode_. Sam gave a resounding groan from the floor several metres away in agreement.

Castiel turned, a rare display of miserable desperation on his face as he moved, this was not going how any of them would like. “Dean! I-”

_Whack_

Dean coughed from the floor a few dazed seconds later. Well, damn! Guess the angel's wings had turned with him. Bruise number three from angel wings?...Check.

“Castiel! Stop!” Sam had scrabbled back to his feet, dust and splinters of wood sprinkled in his now wind swept princess locks that had _Because you're worth it: Bar Brawl Edition_ passing through Dean's head even though now is possibly one of the most inappropriate times on earth. At least the angel had frozen at the barked command.

Castiel moves his wide eyes to the younger brother, frozen mid turn, wings spread and trembling. “Just...Easy.” Sam had his best soothe you voice on full power, his hands up in a placating manner and shuffling towards the winged creature like one would a wild animal trapped in a corner capable of tearing your head off.

Dean gets the impression that Cas would have narrowed his piercing _What Did You Say?_ stare at his brother at the patronising notion if the comparison wasn't so accurate. As it was, panic seemed to be ricocheting through the angel like bullets from the brothers' hand guns. Hell, his wings were literally vibrating with the angel equivalent of a spiking adrenaline rush.

Dean manages to shuffle up, Sam not far at his back, until he's a just over a metre away from the angel. He's trying to keep himself small and non-threatening. Castiel looks like he's fighting his body's automatic _fight or flight_ response, and honestly, both of those options warn of pain for everyone involved.

Dean took half a step forwards, trying and failing to lock gazes with the angel, laughable really considering how often they do it unintentionally.

Castiel's instincts were deafening, he tries to keep his instinct to fly under control, but it's all he can do to only take one step backwards. His wings flail at the movement, offsetting his balance and both brothers leap backwards a pace. The limbs flare out to the side, and though the angel is still panting, they can tell his sense of angelic wrath and pride are beginning to seep back in through the fog of panic and they need to settle this before Castiel gives in and flies off and injures himself. Because, honestly, Dean believes one of those metal aeroplane death traps would be safer than flying Castiel style right now.

Dean braves back into the previous distance. “Castiel, chill out, dude.” It comes out rougher and slightly shakier than he intends. But Dean's use of his full name seems to be a soft comfort to the angel's fraying nerves, his wings settling gently at the soft vibrations that pass through his Grace at the words. “Can you...I don't know...just, sit down or something until we get a grip on this?”

It would be mildly insulting if Sam wasn't nodding quite so fiercely, eager to avoid another wing smash to the ribs because, _Jesus_ that hurts like a bitch. The panicked angel is obviously freaking out about this, and by the rapid, jerky movements of the new limbs, Sam hedges a guess that Castiel's never used them like this before. That thought in mind, Sam seems to jump back on the soothe the angel train. “That witch is long gone, Castiel. Just...easy, yeah?”

The angel shoots both of them a wary look, before hesitantly dropping down to one knee, wings naturally rising and spreading to give balance, though the foreign new weight of them at all off-sets this somewhat. It's like watching an animal learning how to walk again after losing a limb, the sudden loss, or gain in this case, of weight was playing havoc with his balance. Painfully slowly, Castiel moves to sit cross-legged on one of the large boards similar to the one Dean had crash landed on. The weight of the wings tugging sharply on the angel's shoulders and he leans forwards in response, the feeling that follows the movement was both gratefully natural and terrifyingly foreign.

Sam and Dean tentatively hedge closer, the way the wings tense doesn't escape their notice; each one is _enormous_ , far bigger than Dean had ever imagined they could be. The dark feathers are reflecting the dim light, the natural oily black gained a shimmering soft highlight of pastel orange. It's a sharp reminder to the two hunters what exactly their third wheel is.

A fucking angel of the Lord, black wings and all.

The brothers are just about settled down in front of the hexed angel when he speaks, voice tight, the strain of the situation clear. “I...Find myself sharing your disdain for witches, Dean.”

He sounds damn well petulant and Dean can't help but burst out laughing, because _Damn this isn't funny_! “Bitches, the lot of them.” He agrees whole-heartedly, his tone sympathetic, he doesn't need the angel thinking they're patronising him. This is the most put out Dean's ever seen Castiel, even slowly turning human had never visibly shaken the angel like this. Instead, Dean edges closer, knees almost touching as he glances over the angel's shoulders. The angel's breathing is softer than before, Dean's contiguity enhancing the angel's control through his panic, even his wings seem more settled now, and in return, the brothers feel less wary.

Castiel's gaze finds Dean's, locking for a few moments. For once Dean really doesn't mind, the angel takes comfort in the steadiness of that all too familiar green that he finds there, and before long he's letting out a few purposefully calming breaths; winding down from the blinding angelic instinct to smite everything and get the hell out of dodge.

The staring is, thankfully from Sam's view, broken as Dean can't restrain himself from staring over Castiel's shoulder again, his gaze tracking over the huge appendages now filling a large portion of the abandoned bar.

Dean begins tracing the joints of the left wing with his eyes, taking in every small ridge and groove of each feather that he can see through the gloom, his eyes focusing on the amazing way the dull orange light leaking through the blocked windows seem to set the edges of the wings on fire. The black of the wings isn't wholesome, it's shimmering like a pool of oil resting on water, reaching occasional shades of green and stunning blues that move with every breath that Castiel takes.

The angel himself shifts a little under the entranced gaze of the elder Winchester, Sam's expression mirrors his brother's and there is nothing Castiel can do to avoid it, not without risking hurting one of them. In his true form, Castiel's wings are a part of him, there generally isn't any staring in Heaven because _everyone_ has wings. That would be like humans staring at each other's arms, it wouldn't make any sense. But now, suddenly manifested against his will and a tremendous new strain on Jimmy's body, the staring is embarrassing and, by angel standards at least, a little rude. Humans, he reasons, have never seen angel wings before, of course they will stare; he just wishes they wouldn't. It's not making this any more bearable.

Finally, thankfully, something else ensnares Sam's sharp attention, and honestly, it's not like Castiel's wings are all that special by angel standards anyway. Not with the frays from his ventures into Hell and the _thousands and thousands_ of years as a warrior doing the work of God.

Castiel is grateful for Sam's distraction.

Dean's enthrallment is proving to be much more difficult to break.

Dean is still examining the left limb, watching the way one particular feather, hard to see on Castiel's exhale, suddenly gains a fiery outline on his inhale, “Damn, Cas. That's freakin' _awesome_.” The sudden urge to touch, to _feel_ what those stunning things are like, fills Dean to the brink, his hand twitching out without thought. The dark wings twitch away from the suddenly curious fingers, and Sam saves the angel from Dean's questioning gaze by waving a small piece of paper under their noses. Dean hadn't even heard his brother move.

“Dude, the witch left us a damn message about this curse...trap.. _.thing_.” The younger hunter folded his huge legs beneath him to turn their positions into a weird little triangle, before holding the page under their noses so they could both read it.

_Hello Boys,_

_I guess you could say your reputation precedes you._

_And, I have to say, you're not someone I want on my ass. So, here's the thing, that curse of yours will wear off in a month or three. Here's the catch though, you come after me again, I'll summon every demon I get my hands on and send them your way._

_Let’s see you boys handle those when your wing man's got...well, you don't need me to finish this pun do you?_

_Seriously though, I don't want any trouble with you guys, my husband is a cheating Dick, but I'm done, leave me alone and your angel will be back to normal in no time._

_See ya around Boys_

_xx_

Dean re-reads the note twice, groaning miserably at the suggested time frame, and manages to growl out two words that summed up every ounce of contempt all three were suddenly spewing.

_“Fucking Witches!”_

Castiel is seething. Both Sam and Dean can sense it in the air, the low rumble above their heads from an impromptu thunderstorm and rattling windows tells them that unless they calm him down there might not be much of building left in a minute. Castiel is a patient creature by nature, but this is pushing even him way too far.

“Easy, Cas. Getting pissed won't help, that bitch is states away by now, we'll be better off going back to Bobby's.” The _ice_ in Castiel's stare when it locks with his has Dean swallowing loudly, the wind is _roaring_ outside, flashes of lightning sneaking in through gaps in the boards and Castiel's wings glare a menacing silver in the brightness.

There's a sudden faint flicker of bright light behind Castiel's dangerous looking glare and holy crap Dean's never been so instinctively afraid of the Seraph, his instincts are screaming _Get the fuck out of dodge you mindless Bastard!_ He grapples with himself and reaches out to clasp the angel's forearm. “If anyone can break this, Bobby can, come on, Cas.”

It's the fear that Castiel can sense coming from the brothers that finally cools his raging ire. Because it's not just fear of his power, it's a genuine fear of him. And he never wants the brothers to look at him like that again. It's more than enough motivation to try and wrestle his Grace into order again.

Dean breaks into a more easy going grin as the winds calms and the storm hopefully breaks. “Atta' boy, Cas. C'mon, let's get back to the motel and see if we can't get a handle on this.” The angel nods, glancing up as Dean and his taller brother stand, and, hesitantly, he unfolds himself and follows suit. His wings flare sideways, naturally looking for balance, and without the blinding panic, he focuses on finding the balance point he needs to remain steady. He wobbles for half a second like a lamb on new-born legs, but he steadies himself and stands strong.

The relief at that fills him, and though he doesn't tell them to, his wings perk at the positive emotion. It threatens his balance again, but Dean grips his arm again and he steadies. “What the hell, Cas?” Dean can't help but stare, but the novelty is beginning to wear off in the face of the implications the limbs bring. They're amazing, no argument, but they're also _huge_ and not going away.

For his part, the angel looks satisfactorily miffed about the situation. “Two of my wings have been.. _.sutured_ into this plane to the back of my vessel.” He looks like he's got a bad taste in his mouth as he reluctantly explains. As if this wasn't something that was just _told_ to curious humans. “They are, essentially, the... heart of my Grace.” He's eyeing the shadowed corners of the room as if looking for anything that could use the information against him, and the Winchesters can kind of see why. “I can choose to manifest them like this,” he flapped a hand off-handedly over his shoulder as they slowly shuffled out of the building, “but I have to make my Grace flow in a certain way for it to be-...Your language is so limited.” He grumbles, ignoring Dean's raising eyebrows. “-To be...comfortable, or familiar. This, _witch_.” The word was spat out with so much contempt Sam took a hasty step sideways as the angel's wings flared in a way that contained far more menace than before. A roll of thunder boomed overhead. “Has forced them to manifest in a way that isn't familiar. It doesn't _feel_ right. Like somebody hacking off your legs and stitching on someone else's.”

Dean gave a low whistle. “Shit”

“Indeed.” Castiel nodded, being careful to force his wings to curl tightly to fit through the door way, though they twitched threateningly.

Sam quickly chucks their gear in the trunk as Dean wonders how the hell they'll get Castiel's wings in the Impala. “This is gonna be...frustrating.”

It was. Castiel's pride was already badly bruised and his usually angelic patience was rubbed raw. He stretched the right wing into the car first, before sliding in after it, curling it too him in the process. Drawing his left in afterwards, the angel actually _growled_ at Dean when he went to help push the wing in, the sound a shred of true angelic voice and the ominous screech like a blade being sharpened had both humans backing away quickly. Sam swore Dean was sulking as a result.

It was a very tight fit, the wings were curled forwards, the “wrists” pressing into the roof and the flight feathers curling badly in the passenger foot wells. A few of the primaries escaped the back and slid around between the front seat and the two front doors, but if Sam or Dean felt the feathers against their thighs, they grit their teeth and kept silent, and neither dared to actually _touch_ one.

The fucking bastard would probably blast the car apart if they tried.

As it was, Castiel was mashed in the middle of the back seat, a wall of black feathers surrounding him and Dean wisely said nothing about how he couldn't see a _damn_ thing out of the back. The angel looked murderous, and stupid though Dean may be occasionally, he is not suicidal.

The sharpie idea has nothing on this.

As it is, it looks as if a giant black bird has crashed in through the back and taken up residence in the back seat.

The only one who seems remotely cheerful is Uzziel.

She had been dumped on the front seat during the ten minutes it took for Castiel to work out how exactly to go about getting in the metal box without either breaking his wings or breaking the car. But now, Sam, in a fit of either madness or genius, scooped up the infant creature, and dumped her on the rattled Seraph's lap, snatching his hand back.

Dean held his breath as they continued speeding back towards the motel room, glancing at the mismatched pair in the back seat. Huh, that kind of sounded like a bad joke; _An Angel, a Dog and Two Hunters got into an Impala_...He hoped to hell the punch line wasn't a fatality or a decimated car.

The angel's pissed stare shot down at the mutt the second Sam dropped her, before moving to the apparently offending Winchester and Sam hastily retreated the measly distance back into what felt like the relative safety of the front half of the car. Castiel's gaze returned to the puppy again, and as Sam must of hoped, the innocence and trust in those sleepy brown puppy eyes had some of the tension leak out of Castiel's shoulders.

Slowly, the Seraph brought his hand up to soothe the nervous young creature, stroking her gently until her huge eyes closed in bliss, the angel murmuring a soft “Uzzi” under his breath.

_The Lord Is My Strength._

The tension in the car continued to fade.

Dean's never been so damn grateful for the mutt's presence.

–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a few days late! I completely forgot to upload it. Sunday's one will be up in a few hours too!


	6. Cage At Own Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Postage and Packaging may upset living contents. Handle with caution...

To say that the atmosphere in the motel room that night was tense, was such a gross understatement that you risked angelic smiting just for letting on that it was suffocating them all.

And really, it's not like it's even surprising that Castiel has got his grumpy face on full power. Sneaking back into the motel room without anyone seeing two enormous angel wings wasn't easy. Even if their natural colour camouflaged them well in the night air, even with the artificial lights of the nearby surroundings causing the edges to seemingly catch fire. And that only proved to be a problem for half a second, because one moment his ruffled wings were illuminated by the street light next to the Impala, the next the angel scowled and the bulb exploded. Raining tiny shards of glass down on the tarmac.

The Winchesters, wisely, said nothing.

It hadn't been until they actually got into the relative safety of the warded motel room that Castiel seemed to relax ever so slightly. More out of relief than anything else; he had just been wedged into a metal automobile like a rejected tinned sardine, even a crappy motel room with all of it's glamorous _Guess The Stain_ game glory was better than that.

The dim, ancient light bulb hardly provided the best light for it, but Sam and Dean finally got their first decent look at the angel's wings.

And they were absolutely _huge._

The Wings emerged through the tears in the back of the angel's trench coat, rising up two or three inches, coming to a stop just below his shoulders; before the Humerus of the wings dropped down at a slight angle, coming to a halt below Castiel's elbows. The wings then bent sharply, rising up to the wrist, sitting a few inches above the back of his shoulders when they were curled closed. The angel' primaries and primary covert feathers curled downwards, a slight angle having the tips of each wing facing inwards towards each other, hanging tensely at the back of his ankles.

The wings are fuller than Dean thought they might've been, the hunter had thought the scapular feathers might only come down the small of the angel's back at the most, but the ends of the scapulars and secondaries alone would probably reach to the same line as the angel's knuckles if his hands were held loosely at his sides and the wings were extended. Not to mention the _length_ they must be when stretched out properly. He couldn't be sure, and he gets the distinct impression that if he grabs a tape measure Castiel would go back on all that they've been through and chuck him back on the rack personally. But, even so, Dean was certain there was no way his wingspan must be less than five metres, and he hedges a hopeful guess at more like six or seven.

He can tell just from the scrunch of Sam's face that that shouldn't be possible. He can see his baby brother drawing up the issues with what he's seeing, calculating all the weight ratios and angles, but personally, Dean doesn't give a damn. Castiel is _an angel, of course_ it doesn't make sense to them, when does he ever make sense about anything? A man Castiel's size and build shouldn't be so physically strong either, but Dean's been in a fist fight with him once and that was more than enough for this Winchester fuck you very much. He doesn't even attempt to make sense of the physics, it's not worth the headache.

It's not just the size of them either that's eye catching, it's that _bad-ass colour_. It's inky. The night sky outside is completely out-classed, it's damn unnatural. The only time they seem lighter is under the light of the motel, the dull white light hitting ebony feathers and creating that oily iridescence that Dean was seriously starting to get addicted to; multitudes of colours spilling across the feathers in waves of indigo, ocean blues and forest greens.

He's been scanning over the colour so intensely, that it hits Dean suddenly that the edges of the angel's flight feathers are serrated. Small teeth like a freakin' razor sharp bread knife covering the lower outer edges that look as if they could cut someone in half if they so much as brushed passed.

He wonders if that was why Castiel didn't want them anywhere near them.

But that can't be right, Dean's hand shot to his side where one of the wings had smashed into him back in the bar, he was bruised sure. But still in one piece. Maybe they were only sharp when the angel was fighting? He might have just thought he'd been lucky if Sam hadn't been hit the same way and only had a few bruises for his trouble and not a limb short.

The staring goes on, and on, and on. The tension is palpable, but it's not enough to break the watching. It grates against Castiel's patience like a blade across a whetstone.

The TV springs to life, crackling out quiet static as it flicks through autotune with out being told to. The crappy old bulb begins to flicker an instant later, the air becoming cloying and damp, the smell of ozone and the aftermath of lightning storms permeating the room thickly. Sam reacts first, taking in the rigid trembling of the newly visible wings and the murderous stare the angel was subjecting the filthy carpet to, radiating uncomfortable embarrassment and cracking patience.

Sam nervously whacks his older brother in the back of the head, breaking Dean from his trance. Turning on the spot and grabbing his duffel, mumbling about having a shower he slams the door behind him. It's Dean's problem now.

The older Winchester was certain Sam just wanted all of the dust out of his girly hair and makes sure to inform the younger Winchester of it through the closed wood between them. The water started running, a clear tell his brother was ignoring him. But, Sam's actions had cottoned the elder Winchester on to the angel's increasingly slim grip on his growing displeasure. Dean maybe a hunter that likes the thrill of the fight, but he's certainly not going to poke this bear with a sharp pointy stick. Grumbling, he makes a show of sighing heavily and slouches his way onto the peach coloured motel sofa. Who knows what colour it had been new.

“So, what're you gonna do, Cas?” He asks instead, aiming for neutrality and pulling out a beer; carefully staring at the angel's eyes rather than at his wings.

The angel still doesn't seem that thrilled with the situation, but eventually Castiel's eyes meet his again. There's too much relief that they've stopped staring at him for him to possibly hide it all away. Even the wings seem to relax a little, uncurling to a more natural looking position instead of hitched up warily by his ears like some broody ass owl. “I...don't believe I can 'zap' us to Bobby's.” He grits out thinly, and damn, he's still pissed about this. “My Grace is... unsettled, I don't wish to use it until I can settle it again.” He's apologetic while at the same time angry that he has to be, the wings flare out at the conflicting emotions. Dean warily leans away. Luckily, the wings miss the table.

Dean tries not to stare, he really does. “You can't fly on those?” He gestures to the darkly feathered wings nonchalantly with his beer. The intensity of the unamused squint Dean gets in return is almost funny.

The Seraph sighs, trying not to step away as Uzziel comes trotting over to him. He watches her like he's half afraid that she'll try to chew on his feathers. “In Heaven,” he starts, wings fluttering nervously at the Scottie's approach until it becomes clear she just wants to be picked up. “Angel wings are manifested, not unlike this, but on a different plane of existence. When on Earth, and contained into a vessel, our wings are always _there,_ they're just on a plane that human's, and most supernatural beings, are incapable of seeing or touching them. Flying like that here would actually be more like it is in Heaven.”

The hunter nods that he's following, gripping his beer tightly in anticipation of another wing strike as the angel _very_ carefully kneels to scoop Uzi up before perching on the edge of Dean's bed. The limbs flare, and though the angel wobbles, he doesn't stumble and Dean escapes another hit. It's a near thing though. “What's with the shadows though?” Dean can't help but tease, the manifests making the hunter nervous. “Size matters to angels too huh?” His smug grin seems to be almost lost on the angel, _almost._

The angel pauses, taking Dean's comment seriously and trying not to seem so nervous when he answers, “...In a manner of speaking. Size and shine of an angel's wings is a great source of angelic pride. Power and strength and intelligence is vital in any warrior, they're also used to declare dominance over enemies, and as defensive weapons.”

Dean's grin grew. “I _knew_ you were showing off in that barn. Strutting around like a pissed off peacock.”

Castiel bristles, wings ruffling and glaring blackly. “You had no _faith,_ Dean. Our wings seem to be the main attraction to humans, you would not have taken me for what I am otherwise. I do not _“strut” ”._

The hunter throws up a hand, just about swallowing his smirk and playing off the angel's irritation. He gets the impression that if he laughs he'll find himself in serious Hell territory. “Easy, Tonto. Trust me when I say we both know you're _all_ angel.” He doesn't exactly like to go around proclaiming it, but really, Castiel is the only thing about Heaven that Dean does have faith in. And yes, he'll take that with him to the grave thank you. God knows the type of hassle Sam would give him for that, doesn't bare thinking about.

The Winchester's tone turns more serious. Because it's funny and all, but all the same if Cas can't fly, he's stuck down here. “You gonna be good travelling in the Impala with us? It's a twenty hour drive to Bobby's, dude.”

Those bright blue eyes fell to the puppy curled on his lap. “I will endure.” He bites out tightly, the Seraph knows how Dean feels about his lack of love for the machine, but this was going to be harder on Castiel than it was on Dean.

The hunter glares at the angel for a moment, before he sighs and gives in. Yeah, this is totally going to suck for Cas. “We'll take a couple breaks on the way, maybe stop for the night in Nebraska or something, you starting itching to take a break, tell us dude. We'll stop for a while.” Dean woke up in a coffin once. He knows how it feels to be trapped in something too small, knowing that he's stuck. He's never liked small spaces since.

Castiel seems surprised at the offer, one of those dumb small half-smiles appearing on his face. “Yes, Dean.”

The rest of the night passes by with much less tension. The trio start trying to research with what little books they have with them. The Seraph has made it known that staring is annoying, and after Dean purposefully brushed against one of Castiel's feathers and got _slammed into the fucking wall_ from startling the angel with the action, they both knew better than to try and touch. Prissy asshole.

Despite the late night, the hunters get up just before dawn. Well Sam does. The younger Winchester has to verbally fight tooth and nail with his brother to pull him out of his cocoon of blankets, and Castiel has to break up a blanket tugging squabble before the foursome can cram into the Impala and drive off, bleary eyed, for blessedly cooler South Dakota.

They needed to get out of the motel before too many people would be wandering around, lowering the chance that some poor moron would spot an angelic wingspan and get smited for staring. Besides, a man with wings can only be one thing, and the last thing Team Free Will needs now is demons on their asses because Castiel could be vulnerable. Not that anybody was willing to voice that fact to the angel's face, though Dean was sure trying to get it across in irritated glowers through the rear-view mirror.

The trip is far from relaxing. The Seraph is antsy. He'd felt a call on _Angel-Radio_ to get his ass back to Heaven to help with the next battle. And, not only did Castiel not believe he could physically fly back up to Heaven right now, even if he did, he would be more of a hindrance than a help. So, having sent an apologetic message to some chick called Rachel, the angel was stewing in the back seat. This was just the last freaking straw.

“I'm sure they'll manage, Cas” Dean had tried to reassure the angel when the Seraph seemed to refocus from the angelic chattering looking particularly sour.

The angel had glared at him hard enough all of the little hairs on the back of Dean's neck rose up in warning. “Raphael is attacking again, he is too strong for us to defeat, and though we keep fighting in a hope he'll make a mistake, Dean.” His voice was rough with frustration and anger and defeat. “The _only_ thing we can do between attacks is search for the stolen weapons of Heaven. My brothers and sisters are fighting amongst themselves and if this curse lasts for as long as I fear, Raphael may make a move to break the cage before I can help intervene.”Meaning _I hope you are fucking happy with your stupidity because I see absolutely nothing about this which is funny_. His glare was starting to make Dean feel like a bit of a dick just for asking about it in the first place, and even Sam seemed more rigid in his seat.

The seraph had already mentioned these stolen weapons to them, back when the Seraph had first dropped the _Apocalypse is Back on the Plate_ bombshell. They'd been keeping the hunter community ears open for them, but as of yet, nothing suitably holy or Zombieland-ish had come up, but it's only half nine, so let's not get their hopes to high.

It's the first time though that the hunters have actually had the angel with them long enough to see the toll this stupid war is starting to take on him. Dean hasn't seen the angel look so purely _frustrated_ at the situation before, was the war in Heaven really that bad? Castiel was never incredibly social, but some of the glares and brush offs they'd been getting lately was grating against Dean's nerves.

“There's no point getting worked up over something we can't change, Cas.” He feels more than sees the narrowing of the blue eyes aiming at the back of his head, and yeah, he's knows they're the last people on Earth that should be saying that. “Let's just try and break the curse and keep a close eye out for these weapons, we said we'd help, and we will, dude. Just hang tight 'till we get something to shoot at”

Castiel didn't say anything, but Sam and Dean got the impression that the words didn't kindle much comfort in the angel.

So, yeah. The first two hours were anything but laid back.

It took until nearly the third hour before Uzi's constant licking and playful tugs on his coat finally drew a light sigh of resignation from the angel and the atmosphere became less awkward.

Now, the forth hour was approaching fast. The angel was nearly shaking in his seat. His wings looked like they were cramping something fierce with being locked in the same position for so long, and the expression of utter misery on the angel's face has Dean looking for a deserted turn off. And, in pure Winchester luck, just when Sam tells him of one further up the deserted highway from the crinkled old map he was holding, a cop car appeared from a tiny lay-by.

The black and white car was a small approaching point in the distance, flashing it's lights in a clear _pull over, pull over_. Dean grits his teeth in annoyance, he'd expected to get pulled at one point about the blocked windows, but not just quite yet and he still doesn't have a plan.

Luckily, Castiel also seems to notice. Which isn't such great news for everybody. The angel raises his index finger suddenly, and _twitch._

The cop's car suddenly dies. The ignition cutting out and car puttering to a skidding, coughing halt. Dean has half a mind to be grateful that the angel didn't just shove the car off of the road altogether, but instead the hunter just huffs out a chuckle and speeds off down the highway, leaving a black and white speck in the distance. The cop hadn't got anywhere near close enough to take their plates and his suddenly malfunctioning car would have him distracted and stranded for hours. Dean almost feels a little sorry for the guy.

When they finally reach the track Sam had found, a tiny little dirt road that Dean crawls up for fear of ruining his baby's tyres; Castiel all but leaps out of the car. They're in the middle of nowhere, trees and farmers fields as far as the eye can see in all directions, and not a soul for miles. _Perfect._

Sliding out of the front seat to stretch his own legs, Dean watches the angel sigh in quiet relief, the type Dean recognises as the feeling he always gets when he's been tied up for hours and finally gets set loose. It would usually grate against the hunter that in this case, the restraint is his beloved car, but then Castiel opens his wings for the first time and Dean forgets to think about anything.

The hunter feels his jaw drop. He knew they were going to be huge, but it's a very different thing getting to finally see it for himself. It's majestic, and holy, and suddenly Dean feels something a lot like _faith_ burning in his core. The wind was soft, ruffling the black feathers gently as his friend seemed to soak up the sunlight, the golden light shimmering across the glossy feathers, and the amount of colours that spread across the span couldn't be counted. He didn't realise that black could _shimmer_ like this.

The brothers don't notice they've fallen back into staring mode until Castiel suddenly turns self-conscious and withdraws the limbs to his shoulders again, the movement graceful and fluid. The Seraph had spent most of the night trying to get used to the newly manifested limbs, getting a feel for his balance points and familiarising with the way the limbs moved when forcibly manifested in this way. The result was much more refined movement, and Dean's, frankly, a little stunned at how easy the Seraph makes it look after the disaster of last night.

The wings still twitch furiously. Even with the greater control the angel seems to have mastered over night, they are still the clearest beacons into Cas' emotions that Dean's ever had. Suddenly, the stoic creature that has been Dean's friend for over two years is not so stoic at all. His expression and body language hasn't really changed that much, his shoulder's tend to shift a little more than before, or maybe Dean's just more hyper aware of the action now. But his wings reflect his mood perfectly, they twitch jerkily and vibrate when the angel is uncomfortable, they relax against him into what looks like what is their usual position when he's settled; they ruffle and fluff up when angry and Dean's seen them flare enough times to know the difference between the angel's irritation and the angel's ire.

Angels weren't supposed to be able to feel. That's what Castiel had tried to make clear when they met; they weren't supposed to doubt, or act surprised, or become attached to anything. And if the way the wings curl around Uzziel when she comes bounding over to say hello is any indication, Castiel's far better off for it than the rest, whether he knows it or not. Besides, this is such a novelty that Dean's already working on ways to find out how the angel _really_ responds to things passed his usual controlled demeanour. First on this make-shift list is getting the angel another slice of pizza.

–

Castiel makes it just over four hours again before he can't take the strain any more of being contained in, what he unfortunately refers to, as “a slow travelling metal cage.” And Dean pulls off into another dead end track spewing out contempt for the verbal assault to his Baby, flittering between hurling insults and promising gifts of TLC to his Impala.

They're what Sam guesses as being about twenty minutes from Clayton, and they're finally about to put New Mexico behind them. They stay there for a while; Dean's been driving for over eight hours and his feet and eyes are feeling the strain. He knows they'll have to bunk down for the night soon, but staying the in car isn't really an option tonight.

Although, he thinks, glancing at the angel, if they did camp it out in the Impala, Cas could stay outside all night and not have to worry about staying out of sight. He's about to ask the angel about it when Sam's phone starts blaring from the glove box and Dean swallows the question and forgets about it as he goes to answer it.

_Sam?_

“Bobby?” Dean knows this isn't going to be a conversation he wants to hear as the gruff voice breaks through to him.

_Dean. Where're you boys at?_

The trio told Bobby about Castiel's...problem not long after arriving back at the motel, and the older hunter had promised to see what he could find. But this didn't sound like anything that could help their Seraph. “Just outside Clayton, New Mexico. Why? What've you got?”

_There's a sigh down the line. Nothing on your angel boy, I'm afraid, if that's what you're diggin' at._

Dean lets out a disappointed breath. “So, what have you found?”

Bobby ignores Dean's petulant tone, because Bobby's an ass like that. _Somethin' weird goin' down in Hugoton, Kansas. Bunch of kids got attacked by somethin' in an old house, looks like another salt 'n' burn case from what I've read. You boys are heading that way aren't ya?_

The older Winchester totally does not whine in response. “A case? Really, Bobby? We're already on a case. Cas', remember?” The Seraph looks up from where he's stroking Uzzi at the sound of his nickname, the little puppy was tucked against the crook of the angel's elbow looking all the world like the most comfortable creature on Earth. He stares at the phone like he doesn't know whether or not to destroy it.

_Well forgive me if I don't send the 'get well flowers,' Princess! Boy's got his wings showin', that don't make him a god damn invalid! Far as I see from what I've read, this curse can't be broken, so you'd better get used to it._

“Bobby find us a hunt?” Sam asks suddenly, coming up beside his older brother and handing him a much needed beer, he doesn't seem at all bothered about the idea as Dean nods grouchily.

Castiel tilts his head at Dean and the hunter reluctantly agrees that maybe the hunt would be a good distraction for the angel. Might as well make him feel useful again, if there's one thing that Castiel carries well, it's the impression of a kicked puppy when he thinks he's powerless to do something. “Fine, Bobby.” He surrenders tiredly, he's not happy, but they don't have a real reason to say no either, and Bobby will kick his ass for trying too.

_Be careful, Dean. This came up real sudden, it's probably nothing and there're no demon omens around either, but keep an eye out._

“Will do, Bobby” He chucks the phone at Sam to get the details of the house, and leans back against the Impala.

Bobby's right, this did come up quickly. They'd come passed this way not too long before. He had a bad feeling about this.

–

It takes just under two hours to reach Hugoton. And, despite the two breaks on the way from Lordsburg, the angel's patience looks to be breaking thin. Even Uzziel is anxious to get out of the car, glancing hopefully at the passenger doors whenever the Impala begins to slow down, she's overtired and hungry and not even Castiel can get her to settle properly.

It's almost nightfall, the sun's setting behind the skyline and the temperature is cooling rapidly, making a nice change from the hot night in Texas a few days ago. Dean drives them until they pass through the suburbs and they arrive on the outskirts, pulling into a cream and red painted _Flamingo Motel_. The nearby illuminated McDonalds sign has his stomach growling angrily as he swings the Impala off of the road an into the parking lot. There's only two other cars in the lot, and one is so close to the main entrance that Dean knows from experience that it belongs to the Motel's manager.

Waving his brother in the direction of the fast food restaurants, (he's spotted Pizza Hut as well and orders Sam to get him another _every meat_ pizza), he hurriedly checks them in and ushers the angel into their room as quickly as he can. It seems like a quiet area, not much directly around the motel except for the fast-food joints and a Sonic behind them, but there's still the chance some clueless schmuck might catch sight of the wings.

The building is surprisingly clean, though the rooms are smaller than he was expecting; the carpet a strangely patterned brown and cream, matching the walls which are cream on top and panelled brown on the bottom. He quickly chooses the bed to the right of the window, the other one is covered in a pink and white comforter that looks plain awful and Dean instantly decides the cream and brown one is way better. Bar a lamp, a thin blue curtain and a small bedside table, there isn't much else to it.

There _is_ a desk by the wall, but it's too small for them to all sit at like they usually would, but at least there's a small TV next to the bathroom door and a mini fridge, even if it is bracketed on both sides by that dreadful motel style crap that tries to pass itself off as _art._

All in all, it's a pretty standard gig.

Castiel doesn't even glance around the place, and Dean can tell his pride is still a little sore at having been ushered into the room like a child being chastised by it's parents. The angel drops Uzziel down on to the floor and watches her curiously as she begins snuffling about every inch of the floor she can get too. The Hunter rolls his eyes, half in exasperation and half in fond resignation, and goes to get the rest of their stuff from the trunk.

The rest of the night is pretty laid-back considering the day before.

Castiel seems to be more resigned to his situation and is trying to seem more useful, taking up quiet conversation with Sam over the case notes that Bobby's emailed the younger Winchester. The pair doing an extra side of research for any of the missing weapons, and the younger Winchester is listening with huge eyes as the angel describes them and their uses. Uzziel has been fed and is curled up on the angel's lap from his place on the corner of Sam's bed, the closest he can get with such a small desk. He doesn't seem too put out that his winged curse is falling a little at the wayside for the time being.

If there is one thing that Sam and Castiel like doing together, researching while arguing theology is it.

Nerds, nerds everywhere.

Most of the time, it's just Sam asking questions about events recorded in the bible, and Castiel explaining how wrong the book got it and what actually happened. It's actually damn well hilarious some of the time, the prophets in particular being some of Dean's highlighted favourites. Not that he's listening in.

At the moment though, the older Winchester is too busy struggling not to doze off before the episode of Dr. Sexy M.D he's watching ends, though his eyes are stinging terribly and he keeps losing focus on what sexy Dr. Piccolo is talking about to her love-struck patient.

He'd beamed like an idiot earlier when Sam had returned with their food, Uzi already munching hers with gusto. Offering the angel a new slice of pizza, the Seraph had taken it more eagerly this time, and when he'd taken a bite the angel's wings rose with the odd sensations of eating the food, practically vibrating against his shoulders. It had felt like a win to the older Winchester on the side of cultural appreciation. Sam just shook his head, like he knew this battle was lost but was plotting how to win the next one.

But now, with his brother and his angel talking softly about that asshole Gabriel's _Horn of Whatever_ , and the TV producing the soft sounds of his favourite doctors talking, the room feels oddly content and Dean's asleep before the credits roll.

–

“This case is weird, man.” Sam complains the next day as he slides into the Impala, folding his enormous legs to fit in the front passenger well. They'd left the Scottie and the Seraph back in the motel room, the angel researching about the curse with the two or three books Sam had got from the library early this morning. Dean had taken one look at the books and knew they wouldn't have a damn thing in them, and judging by Sam's face, the younger Winchester knew it too. But there was no way in hell that Castiel would come with them, especially not for interviews. Putting aside the thoughts of the odd due left at the _Flamingo Motel_ , Dean turned his thoughts back to the case.

“Yeah, one of these days kids will actually stay out of a building rumoured to be haunted, I mean, what is it with these morons?” It would never happen, and they both knew it. The high school brats they'd questioned hadn't really been all that helpful, all of their reports were different and none of them could decide on what exactly the spirit had looked like. The Winchesters might have been more inclined to believe there was more than one, if there hadn't been at least four different descriptions given to them, because even that was pushing the limit, and the last time this had happened they'd gone in blazing for three spirits and only found one. Even in a house where the freaky-ass parents had killed their eleven year old boy, tried to burn down the huge old place, then committed suicide. “I mean, why would you do _that_?” Dean adds, pulling a tiny, downy black feather out of his jacket, the little fuckers never ceasing to amaze him with their ninja qualities in how they manage to get _every-fucking-where_ without anyone noticing.

Sam sighs beside him as Dean starts driving them back to the _Flamingo_ trying to avoid the late morning traffic. “I have no idea, kids, man.” His younger brother sips his coffee and leans back against the seat, trying to stretch his cramped legs as much as he can in the confining space, he's probably more sympathetic to Castiel's plight than Dean ever was. “Bobby's right though, this is a weird case. I mean, it's like this ghost just...woke up on its own. There's been no one in that house for decades, and the place hasn't been commissioned to be flattened or bought. It doesn't make sense.”

Dean nods, because he's right, none of it makes sense. “Maybe of those kids moved something? Broke a picture or urn or some other freaky piece of crap these weirdoes had stashed in their larder. Can't believe the cops are calling this a _prank war gone wrong_ or whatever those idiots said, I like to think I know a thing or two about pranks, and stabbing a kid in the shoulder with a chunk of wood, is no prank.”

His brother hums in agreement. “I'd lay my money on the little boy though. I'd be a petty pissed spirit if my psycho parents killed me, too”

Dean couldn't help but agree, _people_ man. “It's gonna be a bitch to burn the spirit though, we don't know which it is for sure.”

“We'll have to go ourselves, or just dig the whole family up and take 'em out that way”

That was a hell of a lot of work, but Dean can't really complain about it if he has nothing else to offer up as an alternative. “The family has a private burial plot on the property right?”

Sam nods, he didn't want to dig all three of the Wicoms up either. And doing it near to where the spirits are actually haunting? Not fun. “Yeah. Gotta tell you, Dean. I'm not looking forward to this one.”

Dean shakes his head, absently steering the Impala in the direction of the motel. “Yeah, me either.”

–


	7. A Matter Of A Pinion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes a mistake, and it might just cost someone their life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blood and Violence
> 
> Also, the chapter title is like my proudest achievement ever, see if you can spot why.

The old estate is actually quite a drive out of Hugoton. By the time Team Free Will leaves in the Impala later that night, equipped with enough lighter fluid and salt rounds to supply a small hunter army, it's utterly dark. The air is still, and much cooler than it's been for the last few nights. It makes the world seem quiet, Dean's nerves won't let him relax.

Something about this hunt eats away at Dean's instincts, a tiny gnawing that's turning out to be harder to ignore that it should be. He _hates_ not knowing _exactly_ who they're going to dig up and burn, and it's even worse when there's potentially two spirits wandering the creaky death trap they're on their way to visit. It doesn't sit right with him, but the only sure fire way of knowing for certain is to go there and see for themselves. It's something they've done loads of times before, he's never really liked it, but something about tonight isn't agreeing with him at all.

Sam seems to be more resigned to this case than his twitchy older brother. He's frowning already that they're probably going to be spending the whole night digging up graves, which means a hell of a lot of work and one terrific back ache in the morning. They're getting too old to be digging six feet holes all over the country. Dean sighs morosely as he guides his faithful Baby along the illuminated asphalt, maybe they can coax Castiel into helping; the guy must be able to shift some soil when he really wants to. Hey, maybe he can just smite the spirits instead. Kill two birds with one, rather powerful, Dean admits to himself with a smirk, stone... Or maybe he should say: kill two worms with one quite enormous Blackbird.

Castiel is giving him a disapproving stare through the rear-view mirror.

Dean full out sniggers to himself.

Even if the so called _blackbird_ is currently perched behind him with a dry glare aimed squarely at the back of his skull; chances are, with the Seraph as protective as he is, there wasn't much chance of needing to dig too much tonight if the spirits attack. The thought lifts Dean's mood a little, nerves settling. The shower in the motel room didn't look great and if he can avoid getting so filthy it takes more time to get off the dirt than their supply of water can last, Dean's jumping all over it.

The old mansion is in the middle of nowhere. The road leaves the urban area, eventually being swallowed up by the dark, enclosing forest. The asphalt they're following is surrounded by rather ominous looking trees, becoming more tangled and oppressive looking the more small turn-offs he makes to get to their five star haunting of the week. It gets so bad, that by the time they get to the bottom of the drive to the place, the overhanging branches are mere centimetres from scratching his Baby's paint.

Dean whimpers the entire creeping roll up, until the drive reaches close to a rotting porch, after which the trees give way to knee high grass and weeds that would come up to Sam's hip.

It smells dank and wild, the only light coming from the faint night sky leaking in through the scattered clouds. Dean whistles at the sight of the house. “This place visited by Jack Torrance?”

Sam sends his brother his classic and very much unmissable _I can't believe you just made that reference_ look. “ _The Shining_ , Dean? Really?” It's Sam for _cliché much_?

The older Winchester shrugs loosely, cracking his knuckles lazily before flapping his hand at the sight beyond the windshield. “Dude, all this place is missing is the Indian Burial ground and a hotel sign.”

Turning his eyes back to the dilapidated house, Sam visibly folds. “Yeah, this place is kinda creepy.”

“Is Jack Torrance a suspect in this case?” Castiel's rough voice joins in from the back, confusion colouring the angel's tone.

Rolling his eyes, Dean turned in his seat to glance at the Seraph. There's a tension hard across his shoulders, his wings are still firmly contained and he looks slightly put out that they're deciding to have this conversation here rather than outside. Dean ignores it. “We need to start doing movie night. Who doesn't know _The Shining_?”

Castiel tilts his head and Dean gives up trying to explain, he doesn't doubt that it would be wasted breath. “That's it, we're watching _The Shining_ at Bobby's after this.” He almost grins as he says it. Yeah, okay. That actually sounds kinda fun. He starts drawing up a mental list of crappy old monster flicks.

The seraph brushes a soft hand along a sleeping Uzziel's coat once in thought, but the way he tilts his head means that he's tentatively agreeing. Dean smirks back. Then he sighs and turns back to glance at their current obstacle.

The place really does look like a certified death-trap. Most of the windows are either broken or boarded up or both; the only light hitting the building comes from the moonlight filtering through and it illuminates the huge cracks in the front and sides of the ancient house. The porch is bowing under its own weight, a rotted porch swing in a ram-shackled pile by the front door which is hanging by a single hinge; a great chunk missing from the top right corner. Dean would bet his miserable amount of savings that it'll have the cliché _creak_ when they push it open. That's if it doesn't just fall on them first.

It looks as if it may have once been three floors, but there's a splintered section of the roof that looks from the outside as if it'd collapsed inward onto the third floor; the whole place had probably been exposed to the elements for years. Great, that means rotten floor boards and falling heavy ass roof tiles if someone so much as breathes too hard. Freaking perfect.

The air is thick and cold, it clings to the building as if the place is incapable of being warm or comfortable. There's visible black charred stains near the second floor windows on the front of the house, and no matter how hard Dean tries, he can't picture the place as new. There's just too much damage. It looks as if it's tried hard to be a cheap ass haunted house set from some fucked up theme park. Seriously, why would you even go in those things? People, man.

“Shit, Dude. This place looks like it's about to cave.”

Sam nods slowly, examining the place with the hesitant air of someone who really doesn't want to go in, but knows they have to. “This place is _old_ , Dean. No one's lived here for ages... But I mean, I read that some of the supports on the first floor are brick and concrete, even the stairs are made of cast metal or something.” If he's trying to convince himself that at least some of the house should be sound, he's not doing very well. The younger Winchester sighs grumpily, there's no way to make this any better. “We'll need to be careful.”

Seraph clambers gracelessly out of the Impala the instant the conversation looks to be over. The utterly relieved sound that comes out of his throat when he _finally_ gets to stretch his cramped wings is damn near pornographic. Sam shuffles awkwardly. Dean just stares.

They leave Uzziel happily napping in the car, Sam cracking his window open enough for the eight week old to get fresh air, and a blanket on the seat in case she gets too cold. Dean's not entirely happy leaving the window open on the slim chance that it rains, but Castiel's _look_ is enough to shut up mumbling about it. They pack themselves with their typical array of ghost busting supplies and as one, the group wanders over to the cobweb covered porch with a clear air of desired procrastination. The old splintering boards creak heavily under their weight, dipping a little near the centres, all three freeze at the sounds uneasily, sharing uncertain glances until the wood seems to settle again without the fun of snapping under their feet.

Dean sighs moodily, turning to the others as he steps onto what looks like more reliable boards. “I hate these old places.” He moans. “It's like crawling over thin ice.”

Sam was just nudging the precariously hanging door open in front, the hinge groaning madly under the movement just like Dean suspected it would, when Castiel lays a hand on both of the brother's shoulders. Both halt instantly, grips around weapons tensing instinctively as they turn to him. The angel stares at the building mistrustfully through the dim, cool air. “What, Cas?”

The Seraph frowns deeply, pulling at the lines around his eyes. “I believe there's more than one supernatural being attached to this building,” he pauses uneasily, his frown deepening. “I'm finding it...difficult to pinpoint them.” Wary and put out, an unspoken _Something is wrong here_ hangs around him like a glaring neon sign.

Great, now their ace up their sleeve is experiencing stage fright.

Dean doesn't have the time of day for this. He wants to watch his doctors damnit! “Maybe it's your Grace. you said yourself that it's feeling a bit screwy, right?” The older hunter tries, Dean just wants to finish this god damn hunt, it's going to take long enough as it is without the angel's cryptic ponderings. Maybe it's stupid to be dismissing him, but it's not the first time that Castiel has been more cautious than necessary. Honestly, the dude's worse than Sam sometimes.

Castiel narrows his eyes at the human who clearly doesn't understand his warnings; even Sam doesn't seem too concerned about this. It makes the angel wary of pressing the matter, though he's not entirely certain why. Dean was angry the last time that Castiel was so concerned about their potential hunting safety somewhat unnecessarily. And the human wasn't entirely wrong, his Grace was still...unsettled. It grates nastily against his instincts, but the angel makes himself nod slowly and allows Dean to continue. Maybe the hunters are right? After all, Castiel is a Seraph that's business has lain with orders and smitings rather than petty spiritual hauntings. This is the human's area of expertise, not his; and he decides to trust his friend's experience over his own.

Turning back to the door with that sorted, Dean warily crosses the threshold, flicking on his flash-light in the dimness of the interior. “Oh yeah, definitely Stanley Kubrick's type of gig.” He says, carefully stepping over the debris piled up in front of the door. There's dust _everywhere_ , flooding upwards into a swirling mass as they move passed. Dean can practically feel the asthma starting to develop in the pit of his lungs. The floor is littered with old smashed furniture and shattered glass. The air is thick and damp; it reeks of mold and rot.

Dean decides that this would probably be that asshole Pestilence's idea of MTV Cribs. Which Dean has totally never watched by the way.

Despite the extent of the damage, there's no denying that the building is absolutely _huge_. The hallway they find themselves in exits off into an enormous sitting room; the obnoxious sort that had old chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling with dust and cobwebs hanging so low that even Castiel has to walk around them or have them tangle in his hair. The wallpaper looks as if it may have been rusty brown once, but now it's mostly peeled away or turned blues and greens where the mold has crept up over time and water exposure. The hardwood floor is completely covered in a thick layer of grey that's only breaks come from either their own feet or from the smaller footprints that the witnesses left behind. There's barely any whole furniture, most of it Is either missing, or overturned or smashed into jagged shards spread across the floor, sporting more water or termite damage. It's dark, suffocatingly clammy, and freaking cold as hell.

The room leads onto another, even larger room. This one joins in with the hallway; a huge, metal, heavy looking staircase leading up along the far wall up to the second floor. This room is much the same as the other one, wrecked and dusty, atmosphere thick and choking with the smell of dank humidity and decay.

Dean reluctantly scans the unimpressive place with his flash-light, making an executive decision not to look at the state of the unusually high ceiling because the chandeliers in this room have already broken free and crashed down to the floor, and there is only so much more that this building would need for the whole thing to come down on top of them.

And one moment Dean is glancing around to spot check Sam, the next the low timbre of Castiel's voice is pounding a warning _“Dean!”_ into the dark.

The hunter spins, his flash-light clamped to the barrel of his salt-round loaded shotgun, the beam of light penetrating the gloom and for a second his eyes land on the scrawny, short boy Dean had seen in photos earlier that day; only this image is caked in dried blood and tattered scraps of wispy, old-fashioned clothing.

Castiel's warning doesn't come soon enough, and Dean is blown off his feet the second the boy matches his gaze, the hunter slams into the wall next to the stairs so hard that some of the plaster and scraps of old paintings rain down on impact. And yeah, Dean really feels that brick work, Sammy. Fucking thanks for the warning. He's lucky it didn't come down on top of him.

Despite the momentary daze that comes with impact, Dean still can hear the angel's fierce growl through the ringing of his ears and Sam's shotgun discharging. Groaning at the throb of his ribs, Dean scrambles to his feet, grabbing his shotgun from the floor and then retrieving his flash-light, thankful it didn't smash. “Get 'im, Sammy?” He coughs, shooting them both a look that says _, I'm fine._

Sam glances at his brother, before edging back to Dean's side; it's easier to watch each other's back than their own. “Guess it was the little boy after al-” The younger Winchester's eyes widening is all the warning the older hunter gets that the damn thing's behind him, because one second Sam's on his feet, the next he's disappearing into the room they just came from, thrown backwards into the gloom through the ancient archway.

Dean turns, feeling the air turn icy as he raises his shot gun shoulder level.

His eyes fall on a man. Maybe forties or early fifties, throat slashed out and old suit stained with crusted blood. _'The Father.'_ Dean's brain provides helpfully as he staggers a step back and goes to pull the trigger.

Castiel gets there first, slamming his palm onto the stunned looking spirit's forehead and _pushing_ , the spirit screams, eyes and mouth spilling enough holy light that Dean backs away hastily and covers his eyes. Leaving him with a dazzling imprint of wide, flaring wings; silver with Grace-light and menace. It goes silent a moment later, and Dean smirks at the angel as he blinks the flashing spots from his eyes. “Never seen you smite a spirit before.” He remarks curiously. He doesn't thank the angel directly, and Castiel doesn't need him too. Dean will never not be grateful for that.

The angel gives him one of those rare almost-smiles and his wings fold back calmly against his back. “It's different than with demons, but no more taxing. They're both merely spirits, after all.”

Sam stumbles back into the room, a thin cut on his cheek trailing a small blood line down to his chin and dripping down on to his collar. Other than that, his brother seems only bruised. “More than one then.” He grunts out, staring out into the darkness; his light must have been smashed when he landed because he hasn't brought it back with him. “You think all three are here?”

Dean scowls, wishing he had listened more carefully to the angel on the doorstep of this desolate death-trap. “Well, Cas just ganked one ugly SOB; I'm guessing the dad from his age. We know Junior's still here. Who knows what the hell actually happened to his wife.” The hunter begins aiming for where the kid had appeared before and warily stalks off in that direction, his brother spreading out a little to his left and Castiel staying a few meters closer to the door opposite the one Sam had sailed through to cover that corner of the room.

Dean doesn't quite realise the trap until it's far too late to do anything but watch.

The boy flickers violently into the space two meters in front of the Winchesters, such a sick and twisted and _knowing_ smile on his young scarred lips that both Winchesters falter. It's one thing for a spirit to be _vicious_ but this one glares like it _knows_ something. The hollow dead eyes look past them towards the stairs, a n utterly joyful glimmer on his face like he's seen easy prey. Dean knows in the time it takes his heart to beat once that, without a shadow of a doubt, _Castiel_ was the target of this hunt all along.

They've been played.

And Castiel's about to take the fall for it.

Dean spins on the spot, completely surprising Sam that _Dean's turning his back on a homicidal spirit_ , with Castiel's name in his throat. It's way too late for that, it's already happening.

The angel was turning to look in their direction, sensing the boy's appearance, but the sight of an ethereal, blood stained woman brandishing a putrid smirk in the doorway opposite him breaks his turn. Sensing this is more than what it looks like, Castiel's sword falls down into his hand. The silver glints dangerously in the moonlight pouring in through the windows, his black wings flare threateningly, haloed by the pale glow. He looks fucking terrifying.

The boy vanishes from Sam's sight almost instantly and he turns to Castiel as well, catching the hauntingly meaningful look the woman sent to the space above Castiel's head before he's even moved his feet.

Castiel _feels_ it before he sees it. A crack holding a part of the ceiling in place spreads with a simple gesture from her; it collapses before he can move, hindered by his temporary loss of flight, the plaster rains down around him. The revealed space isn't bare, new Enochian sigils are scored into the ceiling in intricate patterns, dancing around each other and glowing like molten amber. The Seraph instantly recognises the small ones that made up his name, but the rest is a incantation he's not familiar with. The sheer weight of the spell works hits him harder than any physical punch, it didn't completely seal his power, but he suddenly can't _move_. It fixes him to the spot against his will, his Grace roars out in retaliation and outrage.

It lasts only a moment, not even long enough for the hunters to move a step to aid him. Castiel's power is not something to be taken lightly and the being that had cast the spell was obviously weaker. The angel wasn't worried that he wouldn't be able to break through them, but it would take a moment.

It was a moment he simply didn't have to spare.

“ _Cas!”_ Dean bellows the Seraph's name in warning, hating the way the angel stops rigidly under the unfamiliar sigils carved into the rotten wooden beams. But he doesn't even have enough time to move before the boy appears in the archway a few metres behind the angel, thrusting his hands forwards and what looks like fucking _chains_ explode outwards from the darkness of the shadows behind the spirit.

Castiel senses the danger, _finally_ smashing though the binds holding him in place, and turns. It doesn't matter; there's no time left.

_Not enough time._

Instinct twists his body sideways, trying to shield himself from the incoming assault. His left wing shoots round, the huge limb curling defensively around him just as the metal hits home.

Dean couldn't tell exactly what'd been on the end of those glittering chains, but it looked _fucking sharp._

An Earth shattering _noise_ erupts though the building. Gusts of winds howl through the old place as if a hurricane is trying to lift the mansion and throw it into the sky. A sheer, utterly blinding, light explodes from the angel's direction. The roar of the sound pierces through Dean's skull, a crescendo that his ear-drums aren't built to take and he thinks he feels a drop of blood rolling down his cheek. He has one arm wrapped over his eyes, clamping the same shoulder over his ear as much as possible and is hauling his brother backwards onto the floor with him and then clamping it over his other ear. The air feels searing, though the roiling wind is bitterly cold.

He knows what it is, he's heard something like it before. But this is so much worse.

Then he gets it. In one horrendous moment, he understands why.

_Castiel is screaming._

He's had the angel nearly deafen him just by trying to chat to him in his true voice, and now he's screaming and there's no way Dean will ever be able to hear anything again. But that's got nothing on the fact that _Castiel is screaming and fucking hell I think he's dying._

It wasn't a big issue before. The first angelic voice had just been fucking terrifying. Now it's much more than personal.

Behind the Winchesters, the angel wrapped in a thin human skin writhes at the agony. It's overwhelming and unbearable. There's an unending moment of terror and utter confusion, pain so tremendous that Castiel can't think to remember anything beyond the horrific tearing sensation pulling him apart. His power boils up to the surface, his control dying with him. He can't think, can't hold back, he can't _see._

It happens within the space of the smallest recordable instant. The creature struggles, heaving against his own power and ripping torture. He can't remember. He can't let go. _Why can't he let it all go?!_

Then, through the torment and heat and violent disorientation, the angel senses utter terror from the other corner of wherever he his, that's not his own.

_His Winchesters._

The blow of recollection in the never ending blitz is nearly as sickening as the churning agony shredding him apart. The boys. If he let's go, the brothers will be incinerated on the spot.

_No!_

It takes everything he has, has ever been, all of his will and self-control to remain still; his power rumbles in utter mutilated shambles, the pain too much to comprehend even with all of the senses an angel possess.

He can't do it. He can't hold it all together. He's not got the strength. The suffering tears passed his control and he feels it compressing under his vessel's form agonisingly, trying to burst free; to scorch everything and Castiel can't contain it.

He lets it go.

He lunges blindly through the scorching blaze to stop. To do anything. He's probably not going to survive this, but the hunters must.

The effort it takes all but destroys his lucid thought.

It's as if a tornado is ripping into the space; splitting and tearing at the building, the crashes mix in with the supernatural screams and are lost in the dying holy light that is burning against Dean's skin and tearing his soul to pieces. _Cas is dying._

It's too much for anyone to bear.

And then. It stops.

_Silence._

The cascade of sound just suddenly ceases.

It jars like a gunshot.

The only thing that Dean can hear is the slamming sound of his heart pounding against his ribcage and the painful ringing of his eardrums. The air is suddenly cool on his skin, though he's only just realising that he's actually coughing on the dust that's being churned up in the air. The room reeks of ozone and burnt wood, faint crashes rattling from everywhere as debris falls loose and scatters across everything around them.

Hesitantly, Dean pulls his arm away from his eyes, terrified that when he opens them there'll be a charred outline of wings seared into the ground, framing his dead friend.

He feels Sam moving around beside him, groaning at the pain of his ears and the bruises from the chunks of wood that had been whipping around the room. It's enough incentive to pull his eyes open and he's half stunned that the wall beside them is actually fucking _gone._

The floor where they're laying looks as if it was marked as a no-destruction-allowed zone, but the wall at their backs had obviously been fair game. The whole wall has caved down, great shards of all three floors above it crushed into each other and scattered around and behind them. Most of the building is, shockingly, still standing. The staircase next to where the angel had been was the centre of the house, and the room they were in, despite missing huge chunks of wall and having large sections of the ceiling caved in, was still sort of there.

Good thing too, otherwise they would have been crushed to death.

The damage is immense, the huge staircase is leaning menacingly, the archway out of the room is the only thing holding it upright, and a good chuck of what was the second floor is being held back by the solid metal steps. The whole thing is groaning under the strain and Dean knows better than to touch any of it, hell the hunter wouldn't risk breathing too hard over there.

Then all thoughts about the house vanishes from his mind in one vicious jolt, because he spots the Seraph through the choking gloom of the decimated room.

The angel is, unbelievably, half kneeling. One knee pressed into the scarred floor beneath him, his other leg bent and back bowed to let his head rest against his arm, leaning against his knee. His black wings are sagged down to the floor, though Dean is looking up to the angel's front and can't tell what state they're in. The angel's breathing is _awful,_ sounding wet and heavy and ragged, hitching with every inhale and shaking violently on every exhale. His coat is torn and frayed, the rest of his clothes not fairing much better beneath it. There are glittering chains everywhere around him.

Dean doesn't think, he just leaps to his feet and runs to the angel's side.

It's such a fucking _stupid_ mistake.

Castiel's muscles lock in place with Dean's pounding footsteps, his piercing eyes are blown wide and only a thin ring of blue shows through as he snaps his head towards the hunter. There's no recognition in those irises. And Dean's been injured enough times to know the feeling of not registering anything accept _pain and distance_. It's pure, bone jarring warrior instinct, there's no room or time to judge friendlies from enemies before the angel's body springs away from Dean. It looked as if the action had been utterly crippling, body broken terribly and being wrenched away and strained.

But that's no where near the worst of it.

Dean wishes more than anything that he could take the moment back, because the only place for Castiel to go is backwards into the staircase. He slams against it with enough force that the whole house groans lowly. Then it simply buckles.

 _“Dean!_ ” Sam's hands come down on Dean's shoulders like iron, wrenching him away as the archway holding the staircase tumbles and neither of them see what happens next as the whole thing gives.

The ceiling rains cracked, damp smelling plaster around them, clanging noisily off of the chandelier at their side; the snapping and splintering sound of wood swallows up the silence and the pair cover their head as the room seems to waver and crash down around them.

It only lasts a few seconds, and Dean's once again amazed that the house is actually still, at least partially, there. It looks like it's been half incinerated and the other half gutted, but quite a lot of the skeleton is still standing.

Dean snaps his glance back to where the Seraph had been and thinks he may have swallowed his tongue. The staircase had finally given in, the heavy metal crashing down with half of the wall behind it and ceiling above it coming down on top of it.

And Castiel is pinned right beneath it.

The whole thing strikes the older hunter violently, leaving him terrified and more than a little nauseous at what he's going to find if he gets closer. He doesn't hesitate though, and he skids back down beside the angel mere seconds later. He grits his teeth fiercely, furious with himself; this whole thing happened because the hunter didn't bother to notice the wild caution in the angel the first time and _for fuck's sake think Winchester!_

The time for guilt is later. The hunter wastes no time glancing over the twisted wreckage. The stairs have come down awkwardly, the railings have actually snapped off and Dean has no idea where the hell they are; but the engraved, flat side, of the stairs is sitting across the Seraph's back, going an inch or two under his right shoulder, and down at a slight angel across to his left, pinning both of his wings as well.

The beam is a good fifteen inches wide and a large portion of the wall and ceiling is resting on top of it and scattered over the angel's legs. The metal is resting at an awkward angle down to the floor, several chunks of wood and brick are crushed under the left side, and it's just enough to let Castiel's heaving breaths carry on only partially hindered. Holy shit he's still fucking _alive._ He's never been so god damn proud of his angel in all of the time they've known each other.

 _“Cas!”_ There's fucking blood _everywhere,_ pooling at the angel's left and across his back and Dean is having a real hard time finding where it's all coming from, “Cas, answer me you bastard!” He growls, ripping off his jacket and pushing it under the Seraph's head to pillow it from the crushed glass that must have come from the window.

And _holy shit his wing._

Sam is skidding down next to him in the next moment, tearing off his own jacket and jamming Dean's flash-light into a crevice so it illuminates the whole area far more clearly. There's no way those spirits survived that...whatever the hell that was. They're fucking lucky they're dead.

The angel's head is turned to the right, mouth parted and gasping weakly, eyes squeezed shut and brow unconsciously furrowed in pain. There's blood matted in his dark hair and coating his forehead, the hunter hates the way it makes him seem so god damn pale. Please don't let him have lost as much blood as he looks like he has.

Then, Dean's concerns change when he takes in the position of Castiel's pinned wings.

The once glossy appendages are both being crushed into the ground by the twisted steel, or iron, Dean can't really tell in the light. The right is thankfully resting slack a few inches clear of his shoulder, the main “arm” of his wing, bar some of his Humerus, is clear of the wreckage and the limb doesn't actually look that badly damaged in their limited light. Though enough of the feathers are still pinned that there is no way it can be moved. It's his left wing that's the biggest worry, and as Dean lifts off a large, stupidly heavy, chunk of what had once been the wall, he catches a tiny glimpse of the bottom of deep gouges in the angel's wing. It takes a lot of contortion over the beam and through gaps of the wreckage to get a slightly better look.

“Holy shit! Sam, these things are fucking _hooks!_ ” The grimy looking objects attached to the ends of the chains, which he notes hatefully, also have small symbols carved into the metal, were indeed hooks. They're large, maybe the size of his hand span Dean guesses, several inches thick, and he could just about make out two embedded deeply in the angel's sensitive wings; the vicious things having dragged great gashes until they had locked in. Both are flooding out hot white Grace.

Dean feels sick, hit with a vivid memory of having hooks tearing him to pieces on Hell's racks. He sits back as Sam glances at what Dean had been staring at. His younger brother looks equally shaken, anger quickly stealing over his features. Clenching his fists, Sam digs angrily through in their duffel bags, Dean didn't even remember his brother bringing them over, and pulls out some heavy duty looking bolt cutters.

Grim faced, Sam hurriedly crushes each of the chains that lead over from the decimated, darkened room the damn things had come from, and where no doubt they're still chained to something with enough enchantments that the angel hadn't been able to snap them.

“Castiel?” Dean tries calling again, hesitating to rest a hand on the Seraph's neck, wary of jarring his crippled and pinned wing. The left one is curling slightly over his shoulder, Dean doesn't like the way his fingers come away completely stained red. “Come on, Cas. We need your help here, buddy.” This is too much blood.

It spooks Dean to see the angel unconscious. Castiel isn't supposed to be unconscious. That's a mortal thing to do, a vulnerable thing to do. Castiel isn't weak. He doesn't _get i_ njured on salt and burn spirit cases; he shows up, smites the evil bastards, is socially stunted, and flies off again. He's a fucking _angel_ , it's Dean's job to get beaten up, or get into trouble, this is just damn sad.

But he'll quite happily tear up his man card into tiny pieces if his fucking angel will just wake up again. It's not enough that he's still alive, he needs to be okay. And why the hell isn't he healing himself!

A final metallic _clack_ rings out, and as Sam chucks the bolt cutters down the floor and comes back to Dean's side, Castiel groans as if the chains were suppressing his consciousness, which damn that _may have actually been the case._

Dean is desperately careful, very gently pressing against his right shoulder to try and encourage the waking angel to be still. “Cas?” The Seraph chokes out another groan, breathing hitching even worse than before as the pain comes back with awareness, his right hand is twitching above his head, the left is still pinned by his side, hidden from view by the collapsed debris. The longer it goes on, the worse his breathing sounds; by the time he finally pries his eyes open, there's a faint rasp echoing around them that warns of lungs that aren't working properly.

Dean nearly stops breathing when a thin ring of shock-ridden blue peeks out hazily; there's a threatening _white light_ flickering in that blue, flitting across his blank eyes like those videos of vivid galaxies that Sam likes to watch in his down time. There is only one thing Dean associates with that kind of glowing and _no freakin' way!_ “Don't you _dare_ flame your feathered ass out on me, Cas! We got too much shit to do for you to check out!”

The grip of Dean's hand on Castiel's right shoulder turns bruising, but despite the force in Dean's voice, it's failing to cover the pleading desperation. Dean can't _lose_ Castiel. Not now, not after everything they've survived. Not like this. Not for something so utterly stupid. This was all the hunter's fault. They'd been warned it was dangerous, they knew it could be a trap. Castiel didn't want to come in. What the fuck was _wrong_ with him?!

Dean could cry he's so relieved when _focus_ seems to return to the Seraph's eyes. It comes in slowly between agonised blinks with the hunter's muttering encouragement. “...D-Dean?” Castiel's voice cracks over the words, and he chokes a few times at the dust and compression his chest. The seraph gasps, shoulders tensing so much Dean rests his other palm there in an attempt at reassurance, but it doesn't stop the ragged sob of pain that escapes the angel as he tries to move his shredded left wing. He _shakes_ violently, right wing vibrating at the agony as Castiel desperately tries to free himself, to do anything.

The older Winchester never wants to hear Castiel make a sound like that again. That's a tortured noise, a sound that belongs in the bowels of Hell, not being savagely torn out of a Heavenly messenger. “Hey, hey whoa. Easy, Cas! I know it's bad, but stay still, Buddy. You moving will make it worse.” He keeps his voice low, one hand gripping the angel's free wrist, the other a reassuring weight on Castiel's right shoulder. Rule one of dealing with shock patients: Keep Them Calm.

It doesn't work brilliantly, but the angel does stop struggling so hard. “D-Dean.” The angel's free hand wraps around Dean's wrist in return and squeezes back so hard Dean will be very lucky if it doesn't bruise black. “...hurts.” Cas' voice is even lower than normal, eyes hooded and glazed, streaked with mesmerising white. Dean still can't get over how bad Castiel's breathing sounds, rattling wetly in his chest.

The older Winchester sends his brother a despairing glance, Sam is looking around frantically for anything he can use to lever the beam up with, but there's nothing strong enough in sight. “I know, Cas. I know.” Dean soothes instead. It's a house rule between the Winchesters that anything goes in life or death situations and anything said is exempt from later teasing. “We'll get you out of there, Cas. I promise. We still got movie night to go through, remember? We'll start with the golden oldies of monster flicks, yeah? Like, Frankenstein is a must, dude.”

The angel's eyes drop again with the low tones of Dean's voice. He's trembling hard now, Dean reaches out a tentative hand to his left shoulder, catching glints of metal poking out from under the huge top of Castiel's wing. “Come on now, Cas. Aren't you gonna ask what it's about?” He tries to encourage the angel's gaze back, all the while trying to catch a clearer glance of his shoulder beneath the shredded wing without actually touching it.

The hunter cringes down to his soul at what he thinks he can make out. “Sam. I think there's one through his shoulder.” He mumbles quietly to his brother, trying to keep his words soft enough that the angel wouldn't make them out. It would certainly explain his breathing. Shit, Dean doesn't know if that's something they can fix.

There's a tense moment of desolating silence between them.

Sam catches his brother's eye for a moment and just like that all of Dean's motivation floods him through. They'll damn well _try._

All of it's whacked straight on hold when Castiel suddenly goes rigid under Dean's careful fingertips, and for a terrifying moment Dean thinks the angel is actually _dying_. The Seraph struggles under his entrapment more fiercely for a moment, eyes clearing in one panic induced burst of angelic adrenaline. _“Dean!_ ” He shouts hoarsely, the Grace in his eyes swirls dangerously, but it's a warning as much as Dean's ever heard. And this hunter isn't about to ignore the angel twice in a row.

The hunter leaps to his feet, ripping up his shotgun and firing the second another person appears in the room. Sam leaps up next to him, faltering a little in shock that the young looking man in casual jeans and loose black shirt just looks down at the holes in his shirt in annoyance.

Angel.

_Shit._

_Shitshitshit_

“Well, that was rude.” His voice is deeper than his vessel would suggest, but it's thicker than Cas' and not as gravelly.

Dean growls threateningly, maintaining his defensive stance between the two angels. Sam comes up to the back of his shoulder under same the air of defence as his brother; subtly sliding something through the loop of his belt. Then the younger Winchester steps back, kneeling down next Castiel, a gentle hand on his shoulder as the Seraph weakly struggles against the weight on his back. It's no good, he's much too drained to move and far too injured to help.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean snarls, not dropping his gun from it's ready position even if he knows it won't do any good. There's a whole lot of fuck all in the hand they're holding and there's nothing Dean can do about it.

The unfamiliar angel studies the hunter for a moment thoughtfully, taking his time to glance around the human to his take in the sight of his pinned brother. A condescending smirk spreads across his face like a thick oil spill. “I thought your humans would be more impressive, brother.” His tone is lilting and patronising.

Bristling, Dean fires off another shot. “Hey, Asshat! I asked you a question!”

“So you did.” The angel relents, but with a tone that is more mocking than conceding. He watches the hunter disinterestedly, like one would an ant crossing your path. “If you must know, my name is Zephon.” The guy looks about Sam's age, though without the same level of princess locks and darker eyes, but he's more Castiel's height and build. He makes a show of glancing around the room, taking in the destruction with a whistle, before glancing at the cut chains of the floor with something a lot like glee. Like a child who's pet project for the science fair has just paid off. “Did you like my trap?”

The angel mournfully catches a glimpse of the cut chains. “The hooks are made from angelic blades of course, made them myself.”

Dean sees red. He knew the second the other angel landed that he was behind this, but that last comment pushes him from the edge. He doesn't get more than a step before a wall of _nothing_ beats him off of his feet and he crashes into the floor, hard, on the other side of the room, catching his arm across the edge of a broken chandelier.

Grappling to his feet, he spits the blood from his mouth. 'Fucking angels' he spews to himself. With Zephon's back turned, Dean pulls out Castiel's angel sword from where Sam had hidden it and tugs it up his plaid sleeve, suddenly glad he didn't take it off with his jacket.

In Dean's absence, Zephon scowls down at Sam who's eyes are daring the newcomer to step towards his injured friend. _“Sam Winchester”_ Zephon spits, glaring down at his trapped brother with hate filled disbelief and betrayal. “You pulled, _Lucifer's_ vessel out of The Cage? The boy with the demon blood?”

Castiel's eyes, shockingly lucid, are glaring up at Zephon. It's a brave show, but they can all tell that he's struggling to get his vision to focus, wisps of white still circling menacingly. _“You will not harm Sam Winchester, Zephon._ ” His voice is remarkably steady.

Sam squeezes the Seraph's shoulder gently in silent gratitude for the vote of faith. They both know that Castiel can't protect him, and Sam doesn't stand a chance against the angel. They have one sword between the three of them and it's on the other side of the room.

Zephon carries on talking as if he never heard his brother speak, not paying attention as Dean hedges back towards the group. One of these days maybe a bad guy creep would learn to just skip the evil monologue. “But... I suppose, you always did love the _humans_ didn't you brother?” He spits it out like the notion was offensive. It's somewhat weird that the angel can be so much like Lucifer, yet apparently hate him so much.

“Ever since they were first created, you've been watching. _Then_ , then you abandon us for these two insects! Get yourself _killed_. And as if that wasn't enough,” he pauses, his voice gaining more fury the longer he continues and he takes a predatory step forward. “You come back one of the _Seraphim_. Little Power Castiel, jumping from third to first sphere! And, as if you haven't done enough damage to your home. _Your family, Castiel!_ You start a civil war! How many of us have died now?! All of it for them! Why, Little Brother! How could you do this to us?!”

Zephon's dark eyes are burning with holy righteousness, and his hand shoots out in Sam's direction as the younger Winchester stands with the rising tensions. Sam chokes, a pressure wrapping desperately tight around his throat and his feet leave the ground, hovering an inch above the scarred floor.

Castiel is desperately trying to free himself, groaning at the pain of moving, but the urge to protect the younger Winchester too great not to obey. The sheer torture of the movement shreds most of his remaining control over consciousness to pieces. He very nearly blacks out.

“Well, lowly Power I may be,” Zephon adds, glaring murderously down his nose at his younger brother. “I can still rid the world of the worthless humans that stopped God's will. And the troublesome, traitorous angel that helped it all happen.”

Then he reached out his other hand to snap Sam's neck.

And Dean's nowhere near close enough to stop it.


	8. Tempers, Touches and Team Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean would kill for a lot of things, but right now, a distraction is at the top of his Christmas list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blood and Violence  
> Sorry this a day late, this is the first time I've been able to log on for two days.

Dean's heart is pounding out an explosive rhythm against his ribcage. They need a distraction, a god damn _miracle,_ fucking anything!

There's a good nine metres between Dean and Zephon, there's no way that he can confidently throw Castiel's sword hard enough to kill that far. The cool metal in his palm is smooth, surprisingly heavy and well balanced, but it's so unlike any of the long blades stuffed in the Impala, that he's half sure he'll overcompensate and either miss, or stab his brother.

Usually, he wouldn't even be considering it; he knows better than to go throwing something he's not been trained to use unless he has absolutely no choice. But the Zephon's hand is twitching out menacingly in Sam's direction, smirking darkly at the way the younger Winchester struggles. There's no question of what he's about to do and holy shit Dean doesn’t have enough time. He's half way through raising the blade to throw anyway when a small little growl, so out of place in the thick atmosphere of the broken house, makes itself known from the darkened side of the room.

_Fucking Uzziel._

The small terrier is stumbling over large chunks of plaster and broken wood, her paws clumsily slipping over wreckage as she tries to run to her owner, squeaky tiny growls and high pitched whines echoing around the gutted semi-standing room. How the hell did she get out of the Impala?

It's so _weird_ that Zephon's finger twitches and his eyes slide over to look at the little creature, they narrow with distaste and he turns away from Sam to face the nuisance.

Dean sees Castiel's eyes narrow murderously, the threat in Zephon's shoulders is unmissable; but there is a slight hope there too. In the heart-beat the Power's eyes are off of Sam, the younger angel shoots out his free hand as much as he can.

It's agonising for the Seraph, Dean can see it in the line between his eyes. But, Zephon _freezes_. The older Winchester doesn't often pray but he's hoping to anyone who would damn well listen that Castiel's strong enough to hold the dick in place. Zephon snarls viciously, eyes flashing with promised retribution. The room crackles with the collisions of Grace, the dusty dank air becoming thick, the smell of ozone and rain and lightning filling the dark room. The air feels charged with static, wind beginning to tear through the gaping holes in the houses' walls. Dean doesn't know much about the differences between a Power and a Seraph, but Dean can _feel_ it now.

Castiel is injured, weak and still fighting to breathe. His hand is shaking with the effort, but he doesn't falter; his shredded Grace wraps around his older brother, crushing down around Zephon's, biting at the invisible grip the Power has on Sam's neck like an enraged viper. All he'd needed to interfere was a distraction, a kink small in the wall of Zephon's Grace; now Uzziel had provided one, Castiel was tearing past his limits to break Zephon's hold. There was no two chances at this, if Sam was to be freed, it has to be now.

Dean only hesitates for a second in the invisible showdown; Sam's eyes were beginning to roll back in Zephon's hold, a steady stream of blood beginning to pour from the Seraph's nose. Gripping Castiel's sword, thrumming warmly under his white knuckled grip with the Grace of it's owner in the air, Dean runs forward.

 _“Release him._ ” Castiel's hoarse voice commands suddenly, Zephon snarling and growling on the spot like a trapped Hell-hound. The Power's own blade drops into his palm, visibly fighting hard to keep his hold on the human. The Seraph snarls back. _“Now!_ ” It's like a whip strike, the Seraph's voice booms out and Zephon roars as Sam is ripped free from his Grace, the Winchester dropping to his hands and knees sucking in great lungfuls of air. Castiel's hand drops like a lead weight, too weak to do anything but breathe through the pain of just laying still.

Zephon is far from pleased. The Power had stumbled under the Seraph's supernatural attack, but he finds his feet quickly in his fury, spinning and stabbing down at the vulnerable, exhausted Seraph's back. Zephon is way beyond playing these stupid childish games with them anymore. He came here for blood and that's what he's leaving with.

Dean gets there first.

The older Winchester drives Castiel's blade through the back of the Power's neck in one fluid move. The vessel of the angel goes rigid in astonishment and pain; light exploding outwards and Dean throws the body behind him and away from the group with a heavy growl of twisted satisfaction.

The relief in Dean's bones vanishes almost instantly. Oh. Angels dying comes with a ground shattering boom, and they're in a structurally unsound building.

In a half frantic moment, he scoops up Uzziel who's finally reached them, and tucks himself up as close to the pinned Seraph on the floor as he can, the light of the dead angel building to it's max. Sam obviously has the same thought and throws himself sideways down with them as the room shakes under the resulting rattle of Zephon's death.

What little of the ceiling is left rains down chunks of wood and plaster and the occasional broken piece of furniture. Despite the noise of charred wings exploding on to the floor, the hunters both hear Castiel's sharp cry of pain as the weight on his back and injured wing shifts under the shaking.

It's over as quickly as it starts. More dust has been kicked up and swirls around in the moonlight shafts coming in through the holes in the wall. It's blessedly quiet for a few uneasy moments.

Dean coughs in the gloom, shoving off a sheet of wallpaper that still has chunks of plaster attached to the back from where it had landed on him. His shirt is covered in dust, the original plaid pattern difficult to spot under all of it, and as he sets Uzziel back down, he sees Sam is also covered in the stuff.

His baby brother is still gasping in air, but he's recovering quickly enough that Dean isn't worried about him. Castiel, is another matter. The two brothers had shielded the Seraph from the layer of dust and raining debris, but they still haven't been able to do anything about the angel being pinned. Many of the chunks of wall and ceiling that had been leaning against and on top of the metal beam, have slid and shifted under the Power's death, and actually, much of it has fallen away. Dean is not grateful to that homicidal maniac, he's not.

Their angel's breathing is getting worse, his eyes have fallen shut again and if there's much strength left in him after that impressive display, it isn't showing. The blood coating the floor at his left thankfully hasn't grown too much, though it's more difficult to judge with all of the dust coating it like a macabre sheet. “Cas?” Dean tries tentatively, clasping the angel's right shoulder gently with one hand and pulling any loose debris off the beam that he can reach with the other. Sam stands with a stiff grunt, fixing the flashlight back in it's previous spot and begins lifting off the larger pieces. “Castiel? Come on dude, we need to get you out of here before any more of your dick brothers show up, I don't know about you but one is enough for me.”

The older hunter's trying to keep a lid on his panic, shoving it all down until it's locked underneath his hunter instincts. Getting too worked up isn't going to help the angel, they need the Seraph calm if they intend to pull him out of this house alive. And honestly, Dean is scared that there's a real chance they won't.

The Seraph moans softly at Dean's calls and persistent tapping, and the two hunters can see him trying to focus again. “...Sam?” Is the first word he manages, hooded eyes looking up at Dean with a scary lack of blue under all of that celestial white.

The younger hunter pauses in dragging off a much larger hunk of wall, and comes to kneel down in the angel's limited sight line. “Right here, Cas. Thanks for that.” Sam gives a reassuring smile at the way the angel seems relieved that whatever he did worked, before standing again and tugging that huge piece clear off the beam. It smashes to the floor and Dean wonders just how much weight the angel has sitting across his back.

Castiel folds at the knowledge that both Winchesters are alive, eyelids falling sleepily and Dean hurries to shake his right shoulder. “Ah, Cas. You stay awake.”

The Seraph's eyes barely meet Dean's, but for the moment they do, Dean is terrified at the shocking level of apathy there. It only gets worse with the soft, pained, “...tired,” that follows.

Zephon's so fucking lucky he's dead. The asshole's rant had been cut short, but a lot of what he said must have struck a chord with that _stupid_ level of guilt the angel insists in carrying around with him. Dean knows the look of someone who doesn't care if they died intimately, he saw it in the mirror almost every day those last few months of the apocalypse. He recognises the exhaustion of someone who just wants it to be over. Castiel's _tired_ of fighting, and Dean realises in that moment just how bad the war in Heaven must be. The Seraph is literally watching his family rip each other and their home apart, and no matter how much he tries to make them see reason, it keeps getting worse. He just wants it to stop.

It makes Dean furious at God.

How dare that asshole claim to be a loving, forgiving father, then slam all of this weight on his son's shoulders. If Dean ever met the bastard he'd shoot him dead. John may have been a fuck up with his sons on several occasions. But he was never needlessly cruel.

Swallowing the seething rage at that Giant Dick no longer in the sky. Dean clasped the angel's free wrist tightly, glad that Sam is allowing him to take care of this because this is about to enter chick-flick territory and he'd rather not do it with his little brother's stupid staring. “Cas. You aren't giving up, damnit.” The hunter growls lowly, locking eyes with the injured angel as much as he can. “Hell, man. You beat the crap out of me when I was about to do the same thing! Me and Sam, we're getting you out of here, and we'll stop your overly trigger happy family ourselves. Let's face it, buddy; the fighting won't stop until we make it stop. We caged _Michael_ and _Lucifer_ damnit! We can stop their baby bro having a bitchy tantrum.”

Maybe it's the brazen _fuck it_ attitude, or the solid faith that Dean has in Castiel's power, but something important breaks through the apathy haunting the angel's eyes alongside those ominous faint white wisps, and Castiel squeezes Dean's wrist back. “...Of course, Dean.”

Uzziel, hunched up and ears low, whines worriedly beside Dean's knee, staring at Castiel with huge, frightened eyes between harsh trembles. Knowing some thing's wrong, but not knowing what to do. Dean sighs, “you need to look after the tyke as well, because I damn well ain't.” He adds, giving the tiny creature a small stroke he'll deny later as she shuffles to the angel's shoulder nervously and stares at him.

Satisfied that his friend's being watched, even if it is by a tiny mutt, Dean stands stiffly and starts helping his brother. They have no idea if Zephon was the only angel in on this trap or not, but both hunters know that the power Castiel used earlier will not have gone unnoticed by everyone. There's only so long they have until someone gets the spare minute or two to come looking. If they're attacked again, they won't stand a chance, and Dean's not leaving the building without their Seraph.

It takes an infuriatingly long time before the brothers think they've moved all of the pieces they can lift between them. The metal of the staircase is _insanely_ heavy, and even both together, they can't even make it shift. Castiel's ragged breathing, and occasional soft groans in answer to their demands that he stay awake, are growing quieter and they both know that they can't leave these angel blade hooks in his wing for much longer. Castiel's words from several days before describing the wings as _“the heart of my Grace,”_ hasn't stopped swirling round Dean's mind since Zephon died. Because seriously, what does that even mean?

Sam is sending him a despairing look. There's nothing in the room large enough, or strong enough, to lever the beam up with. They just need two or three inches, enough to jam a solid chuck of concrete between the beam and floor so they can pull Castiel free, _just inches damn it!_

He hates it, but there's only one thing in this room strong enough to lift this beam, and it just happens to be pinned beneath it. He knows what he needs to ask, but Christ he really doesn't want to, this isn't something he wants to see. He doesn't want this sitting on his conscience.

Sam's eyes meet his and they know there is nothing else they can do.

Gritting his teeth so hard it's a wonder they don't crack, he reluctantly comes back to kneel beside Uzziel. The angel is wheezing softly with every hard fought breath, trembling constantly as the hunter lays a hand on the Seraph's wrist and shakes gently. It takes a few seconds before blue eyes drag themselves open sleepily, barely any focus to them at all. It's a jarring change from the piercing stares, Dean never thought he'd miss them so damn much. “Cas... We can't lift this.” It burns that Castiel just looks at him as if to say _I know_. “This is gonna suck, man. I ain't gonna lie to you, but you need to help us out here.”

Without most of the other debris coating the top of the beam, Dean knows it must be quite a lot lighter than it had been before they'd started, but even though the hooks embedded in the angel's wing had been forced agonisingly sideways against the feathers under the weight, they were still stuck. Making the angel push upwards against it was going to be akin to torture. If Castiel gives in before they can wedge the concrete under, it'll likely break his wing when it falls back down; at the moment, they've been lucky that Dean thinks both wing's bones are still whole, but he's certain that if Cas breaks his wing, it'll push him over the edge too far to come back.

The older Winchester stares into that hazy blue until he knows that Castiel understands exactly what's at stake with this. The angel frowns in apprehension under the pain, as if he thought it may come to this eventually but had absolutely dreaded it.

There's just one thing Dean has to take care of first.

Hesitating, he reaches out to the angel's right, callous fingertips hovering in the space above the uninjured right wing. Swallowing the wary lump in his throat, he slowly lowers his hand. Castiel's eyes suddenly whip into _focus_ on him. The angel freezes with a grunt of pain and alarm at the sudden change in Dean's behaviour, the hunter crossing the unspoken angelic custom barrier that had been established on their manifestation.

The hunter knows that pulling Castiel free is going to involve some wing grabbing, not to mention all the damage to his left wing that'll need sorting later. They need to get passed this while the angel is still lucid enough to understand why. The Seraph doesn't like the idea of his wings being touched, and doing it without his permission sits freaking nastily in the pit of Dean's stomach. The hunters _need_ Castiel to trust them with this, and Dean can tell from the alarmed look in the angel's white streaked eyes that he doesn't. The hunter thinks he gets it, he really does. The wings are the heart of what he is, they are a manifestation of the centre of his Grace, it's vulnerable and fragile and touching them is massive and something Castiel's never done before. But it bothers Dean that Castiel doesn't let them touch; they've been through hell and back together. Dean's had the angel touch his soul, and he kinda thinks this is like the same thing. He gets it's difficult to trust after all of the back-stabbing of the last two years, but it seems pretty unbalanced to have it go one way, but not the other.

Castiel at the moment is a lot like Uzziel, Dean realises. He's completely defenceless and so utterly vulnerable that it would be ridiculously easy to take him out. If they get him out of under this wreckage, the angel will be relying on them to look after him, keep him safe until he's recovered enough to do it himself. And the hunter gets that for something as _old_ and _strong_ as Castiel to be reduced to a state where he's utterly open like this, must be freakin' terrifying. Like all of the strain of falling last year, but in the span of twenty minutes.

And the creatures he's now relying on can't even really defend themselves. After millennia of watching humans fight and kill each other for no apparent reason, and then be asked to let them near his most vulnerable piece of _himself_ , must be unbearably difficult. Dean often has to have Sam remind him that Castiel is older than they can grasp, all in all, the Seraph has only really been friendly to humans like them for a minuscule fraction of his life. A development like this must be jarring.

The angel needs something back for once. He may struggle to understand humans at times, but possessiveness is a fierce angelic trait. He defends them relentlessly, has died more than once to help keep them safe, they are family to a Seraph that hasn't seen anything like it for thousands of years. But, to the angel at least, they don't seem to see it the same way. Most of the time that the Winchesters call for him, it's for help; for his strength and knowledge and power. He knows they both care below their rough exteriors, but he's being laid bare under these injuries and he can't give Dean the trust of his wings without something more than _“sure we care, Cas.”_ He's given everything else to them, he deserves to keep this as selfishly as he likes until he changes his mind.

Sam came to kneel next to his brother, resting a hand on the injured Seraph's shoulder in a show of solidarity. “Castiel, c'mon man, let us do this.” It's harsh that they can they ask this of him so easily. Sam frowns at the hesitation in the angel's tired gaze. “We're _not_ leaving without you.”

The words from the younger hunter seem to strike the angel hard. Sam doesn't often lie, the younger Winchester knows what the problem is and he still won't leave here even with the threat of an murderous archangel hanging over their heads.

Dean's grip on his wrist tightens. “For Christ's sake, Cas. you're one of our screwed up little team, Team Free-Freaking-Will against whatever the next fuck-truck of a disaster heading our way is, deal with it. God man, the only way you're not a Winchester is by name.” The Hunter's _“this is a fact you idiot”_ tone of voice pauses and Dean grins down at the injured creature, “hell, we'll drink you in a Winchester when we get the out of here, Castiel Winchester has a pretty bad-ass ring to it anyway. So face it man, you're part of our screwed up little family.” This pause is more serious, the intent green of Dean's eyes locking on to the vulnerable blue of Castiel's, “and you know better than anyone how messed up us Winchesters are about family.” And damn it all if Castiel hasn't gone to Hell _twice_ for them, why the fuck haven't they made this clear before now?

Dean can tell the angel is struggling with what they're giving him. For someone who's forever telling Dean that he deserves to be saved, the angel sure is a freaking hypocrite. Then, the angel squeezes Dean's wrist in return, a silent show of gratitude that he doesn't need to speak out loud. And Castiel gives in because the Winchester brothers mean every damn word, they wouldn't hurt him without a fiercely justifiable reason, and all of the doubts about it fade because, yes, Castiel does trust them with this.

A sharp gust of wind suddenly whips up some of the settled dust in the room, the air groaning and weaving it's way through the house, both Winchesters tense in anticipation of attack.

None comes, it's a false alarm. But it puts their possible time scale back into perspective. Team Dick could show up in two seconds or two days. They need to be gone.

Castiel's rough breathing tries to steady itself, and Dean swallows heavily before reaching back out to the Seraph's wing. The shock of blue locking on to his face is electrifying, an instinctual alarm in those eyes despite Castiel trying to stay calm. The wing trembles harder as Dean's fingers edge closer, the hunter giving the angel time to back out again, though hoping to hell that he doesn't. The angel squeezes his eyes shut instead at Sam's reassuring touch and Uzziel is huddling down by his shoulder.

The wing twitches violently when Dean's fingers finally brush the feathers on the top line of Castiel's right wing, and for a second, Dean can't actually believe that he's touching a _freaking angel's wing_. The feathers, despite the dust and constant trembling, are solid and warm and ethereal. Their touch is like warm air brushing over his skin and he can't believe how light they seem. He can't stop himself from running his palm across the top line of Castiel's wing, feeling the line of bones under the skin and powerful muscle below his hand. Soothing warmth feels like it's wrapping around the hunter's hand and is spreading up his arm until it settles like a calm weight next to the sigils carved into his ribs. A low rumble erupts from Castiel's chest, the twitching of the limb easing back into fine tremors as Dean slides his fingers through the few larger, longer secondary coverts that aren't completely hidden. These are warmer, but Dean can feel they're stronger than the tiny black feathers along the top line. They're sleeker too, his fingertips following the ridges of some of them like they're made of silk or cashmere when he knows damn well they're not made of either.

It's nothing less than holy and Dean never knew that he could feel _faith_ in his soul like this before now.

Another, lower, sound escapes Castiel, and Dean finally notices Sam is smirking at both of them teasingly that Dean has gotten so enraptured. He can't bring himself to care, “this okay, Cas?” he asks instead, half still blown away that the angel is letting him do this and the other half insanely pleased that it seems to be helping.

The angel hadn't expected the touch to feel so …calming, when it happened, but it was. The gentle contact was like a switch, opening his senses to Dean's emotions, he could feel the awe, the trust, the disbelief and faith. Dean Winchester had _faith_ in him, it was so hard to grasp, but then the hand grew bolder and the fondness and concern and eagerness to help the angel resonated with his crippled Grace and it was soothing the agony from his other wing into the back of his mind.

No human, to Castiel's knowledge, has ever touched an angel's wings.

“...hmm.” The Seraph gave sleepily, beyond words.

“Good then?” Another soft hum of agreement came from the angel and both brothers grinned. Then the reality that the angel was still pinned and they were open to attack sank in and Dean sighed, pulling his hand away from the wing and shaking Castiel back into focus. “Come on, Cas. Let's get the hell out of here.”

The angel slowly blinked the sleepy comfort from his eyes, the pain immediately replacing it, Dean feels like an ass for making the angel aware again. “Ready, Sam?” He asks instead, making sure Uzi is well clear, watching nervously from a safe distance.

The younger Winchester nods, eyeing up the twisted metal mess they're trying to move. “Yeah, as quick as possible when I say. We don't know how much this block can take.” Sam stood primed, hands grasping the edge of the heavy metal, one foot ready to nudge the eight or nine inch tall block of cement under it to rest on.

“You ready, Cas?” The Seraph nods shakily, his already awful breathing hitching in anticipation for what's about to come. It hits Dean again how much he hates that he's asking the battered angel to do this. “We'll go when you want, buddy.” He adds gently, they're wary of time, but there's no way in hell the hunter is making Castiel rush this. He wouldn't wish this on anyone but Zephon himself.

Taking a few anxious moments to simply breathe, gathering what's left of his Grace, the angel tenses fearfully. The Winchesters were optimistic of his strength, but the angel isn't so sure he'll be able to lift this entrapment. His vessel feels heavy and exhausted, his vision is hard to focus and it feels as if the Earth is trying to shake him off every time he moves his head. And that is nothing compared to the _pain_ spiraling from his wing and racking his senses, hot and sharp, raking against him in ways he never thought possible. Strained and nervous, he pulls his right arm towards him. Dean's grip moves to the angel's forearm and the tan collar of his coat; the Seraph tries to brace his right shoulder into the ground as much as possible. Panting harshly against the apprehension, Castiel glances up searchingly at Dean, catching sight of the tense, apologetic lines around his eyes, and pushes.

The angel goes rigid with strain in front the hunter's eyes, bracing against the floor and shoving up with his left shoulder and injured wing against the metal weight trapping him. His right wing is in no position to help and the tears in his left wing take the full unyielding brunt. Castiel grit his teeth, a sound of pain tearing out his throat making Dean's insides twist; the angel was just trying not scream.

The metal _moves_ , Sam's pulling upwards with all of his might, trying to help the angel as much as he can. It's a heartrendingly long process, the beam raising centimetre by agonising centimetre. The sight still manages to leave the older Winchester breathless; it's somewhat humbling to know that Castiel, even as injured and weak as he is, can still make something that Dean and Sam together couldn't budge, lift like this by himself. It goes on and on until hey need only one final inch to get the concrete support block under there, Dean's gritting his teeth that he can't do anything but wait for his cue.

Castiel's panting in anguish, breathing fierce and hard, face screwed up in so much pain that Dean wants Zephon to come back so this time he could tie him to a rack and torture the bastard to death. “Come on, Cas!” He roars instead, his grip bruising on the angel's tense arm, he has to do this. _“Come on!”_

Dean wants to pull the groaning angel free, wants to so much he feels dizzy with it. He can't, not until Sam gives the go ahead, Castiel is the only one realistically holding this thing up and the second Dean pulls it'll smash Cas' back and wings to pieces if there's nothing supporting it. The strain of watching helplessly makes him restless and sick.

The angel is _trying_ , trying so hard he can barely breathe with the simple effort of just pushing upwards and staying conscious.

The Seraph's right arm wavers with exhaustion under impossible weight. Sudden, sharp fear spears through Dean's chest when he catches sight of it. _“Cas!”_

It's a gargantuan effort, but the beam raises a tiny bit more with the harsh growl rattling out of the tormented angel's chest. Sam slips the concrete under the second it's high enough and the younger Winchester isn't sure what he shouts to his older brother in the panic but Dean gets the message loud and clear.

The older Winchester pulls, back-pedalling as fast as he can, the beam hits the concrete half a second later and the whole thing cracks and wavers. The block gives under the new weight a few moments after, crumbling to dust, the staircase hits the floor so hard more of the ceiling plaster rains down in a cloud of dust. But Dean doesn't give a damn at all, because Castiel is _free._

The realisation has him kneeling exhaustedly beside the coughing, shaking Seraph. Dean's own hands are shaking violently and he never wants to do that again.

Sam gives a short, half-shout at the success, before he's sliding down next to Dean and examining the metal hooks viciously digging in to the angel's flesh. Castiel's chest is heaving, the stairs hadn't compressed his chest as much as it could have, but now that it's gone it's like he's forgotten this is how it's supposed to be. He's utterly spent, not a drop of strength left in his numbing limbs; a terrifying feeling of sleepy paralysis swallows the angel whole.

When Dean grabs the flash-light from where it was wedged and shines it on the left wing, he swallows several words all at once. _“...shit_ ,” he mutters darkly instead, eyeing the damage. He doesn't know much about bird wings, and it's pretty presumptuous that angel wings would follow the same structure, but he remembers hearing that the bones in a wing are almost the same as in his arm. He doesn't know how true that is, but for now he's got no other reference to help him. There are four jagged slashes running down the outside of the angel's wing from the top to the bottom of the muscle, the shallowest is barely under the top of the angel's Humerus. The cut isn't that big, only an inch or two and isn't too deep either, not even bleeding too much. It's just a glance, and though it's ripped out two or three marginal coverts and scapulars, it could have been so much worse. There's another relatively shallow slice next to it, but though it's much longer, it'd already stopped bleeding some time ago, just another graze from where the wing was curling defensively.

The other two are downright gruesome.

The glinting silver hooks, still trailing a metre or so of carved chains, have been half-turned sideways against the flat of the wing by the staircase, tearing the muscle the hooks had been dug into badly. The worst one is halfway between the “elbow” of the wing and the “wrist”, so long it's grazed across the bone at the top and the hook has torn into the gap between the Ulna and Radius. It actually seems as if the damn thing has hooked around the Ulna, tearing through the delicate membrane, blood vessels and thick muscle. It's a damn awful mess, blood still pulsing out from the deepest parts of the gash where the curved blade is embedded, the dark feathers around it half torn out and caked in blood. The other one isn't as deep, but it's not something to be taken lightly either, having torn is own, much longer, jagged trail through delicate muscle and tissue sideways just under the top line of the wing, and it's gushing blood everywhere.

But none of that catches the Winchesters attention more than the bright Grace flooding out around the two hooks, and if either of them had any doubts that Zephon was bluffing about the angel blades, they're long gone now. Castiel's entire left wing is a ragged mess of blood, torn muscles and ripped feathers. And considering what the Seraph has mentioned about their wings, the fact that he's even still alive rattles Dean out of his shock.

“Sam we need to get him back to the motel, like, yesterday.” His younger brother has the same grim look to his face as he does. Sam reaches over and grabs his jacket from where he'd dropped it earlier and presses it hard over the two shallower, hook-less wounds.

Castiel chokes out a sound that makes Sam flinch, the Seraph weakly trying to drag the limb closer to his side and away from them. “...D-Dean?” he slurs thickly, the right wing dragging up from its limp position and curling tightly to him as if he expected the same pain to erupt there as well.

Dean hates the fact that it's only going to get worse. He doesn't know how much blood the angel has lost, or how much those wings add, or if even matters, but there's no way they can let the two deeper wounds bleed as much as they are. “I know it sucks, Cas. We have to stop the bleeding, I'm guessing you can't heal this?”

The angel groans again as Sam tries to see how deeply the hooks had sunk in. “C-can't heal...my Grace, with ...with Grace.”

Dean had already guessed as much. The amount of light flooding out around those hooks is scaring the crap out of him, those faint white wisps are still haunting the angel's eyes. “Easy, Cas. We have to take these out...” he hates the way Castiel shakes harder as he says it. “Then we'll get the hell out of dodge and fix your wing back up.”

Instincts are telling the hunter to leave the blades be. But this isn't their usual fare. He doesn't know how exactly angelic blades work against angels. All he knows is that if it's a good hit, it's usually a certain kill. He gets the impression that the blades do harm just by being in contact with Grace. And if that's true, then there's no way they can wait until the motel to take them out; angel's need Grace a whole lot more than they need blood.

Catching Sam's reluctant, but resolute look; Dean penitently leans forwards and presses a hand against the angel's right shoulder. He hesitates before going for the left, recalling the hook hidden beneath the left wing buried in his shoulder. “Wait, Sam.”

Carefully, the older hunter presses gently against the injured wing, sliding it out of the way as smoothly as possible, ignoring the angel's pained groan in response. The third blade had missed the wing by scant inches when he'd twisted round to try and block them. After spotting the damage, Dean knows that if the angel hadn't tried to spin out of the way, he'd be dead already. The hook had cut through the Seraph's clothes like they weren't even there, coming down at a steep angle and cutting in a good four or five inches into the back of his shoulder. At least this one hadn't torn a line down his back like the others in his wing.

It's still frighteningly deep, Grace wisping out from the edges, blood dyeing the once white fabric of his dress shirt. The Seraph keened lowly when Dean hesitantly pressed around the blade. “Sam, we gotta take this out.”

The younger Winchester seemed to struggle with that as much as Dean was. Experience says leave it, the supernatural element says _get rid of the damn things now_. “I don't know, Dean. That looks bad, man. He needs a hospital.”

“Sure.” Dean snaps blackly. “Let me just phone up St. Mary's and ask them how much they like the paparazzi because they're sure as hell gonna have them filling up the halls when we drop off a fucking _winged angel_ for surgery!”

Sam glares back in annoyance. “You know what I mean, Dean. I don't know if we can fix this...”

His older brother growls dangerously. “Shut up, Sam. Now fucking help me with this.”

Grumbling profanity under his breath, Sam splayed a hand in the centre of the angel's back as Dean carefully gripped the blade. “Just _breathe_ , Cas” The older hunter instructs when the angel groans feebly, barely conscious enough to understand what's happening. Castiel grunts dazedly at the force, but stays still. Dean wishes it was a solid proof of trust, but he knows in reality the angel is too weak to resist either way.

Swallowing the barrage of Hell memories threateningly swimming just out of the corner of his eyes, the older hunter carefully grips the blade, and as smoothly as possible, twists it free. Castiel's hoarse cry of pain is lost in the sound of his right wing beating, his breathing turns frighteningly ragged as Dean throws the blade away, before slipping off his plaid shirt and pressing it against the wound left behind. “Breathe, Cas.” It takes a few minutes before he begins to settle again, the hoarse gasping easing, the trembling is worse than ever.

One down, two to go.

The brother's share an uneasy glance, they don't want to do that again. But they don't exactly have much of a choice. At least the decision is easier for his wing. The two there are already bleeding blood and Grace fiercely, and the hooks are actually making it harder to stem the flow than if they weren't there.

Uneasily, Dean returns to the original plan, pressing a hand firmly against each of the Seraph's shoulders and, for fuck's sake as if once wasn't enough, _pinned_ Castiel to the floor. Uzziel is whining at Dean in warning, still upset from the first one. If there was ever a moment for Castiel to prove he trusted them with his wings, this was it.

Castiel's eyes are screwed shut, shaking and exhausted. Dean's not sure if he's holding still or too weak to move. He's not sure which is better. Sam hurriedly wraps a hand around the curve of the worst offending hook, and _pulls._ Twisting the hook out from around the Ulna in one fluid movement, determined to do this as quickly as possible for the angel's sake.

The angel bucks instantly, and as badly injured as he is, Dean has one hell of a time forcing the Seraph's shoulders back down to the floor. The right wing flaps far more violently than the first time, blowing up dust and small chunks of debris and throwing them across the room; the noise almost managing to drown out the muffled _scream_ of pain tearing out of the angel's throat as Sam simultaneously pulls out the second hook. It's not angelic, but it's so bone rattling that Dean almost wishes it had been; that sound is going to be seared into his brain for the rest of his life.

It takes a cripplingly long time for Castiel to come back to his senses this time. The angel panting and moaning in pain for so long that Dean didn't think he was ever going to answer the Winchester's worried calls again. No amount of encouragement can get him to try and settle his ruined breathing this time, the white wisps in his eyes have flashed up to a white fire. Uzziel won't let them touch her.

Eventually, a desperate squeeze his wrist finally seems to draw the angel back, a whispered, slurring “...D-Dean” breaking the blaring silence, the word so mangled Dean almost doesn't recognise it.

The angel's fucking _shaking_ , and it only gets worse when Sam clamps Dean's jacket over the two slashes to try and stem the now earnest bleeding and escaping Grace. But the damn things are finally out, sitting in a bloody pile like something from a messed up _Chucky_ horror movie. Dean never wants to see them again, all but snarling at Sam when the younger Winchester slides them into his duffel, the older Winchester moving closer to the crippled angel at even the idea of keeping them nearby. But Sam has an unspoken point, there might by something on these chains that could affect the way the Seraph heals, and keeping them in the Impala will be useful if for some reason the injuries refuse to heal and they need to know why.

Doesn't mean Dean has to like it.

“What the hell are we going to do, Dean?” Angel wings aren't a part of Sam Winchester's first-aid knowledge.

The hunter growls lowly, glaring at this brother angrily. “How the hell should I know, Sam! Does this look like a god damn _Carry On, Angel_ flick?!”

Sam takes his brother's frustrated anger with an annoyed air of resignation and bitter patience, they're both tired and worried, but fighting isn't going to help Castiel. _“Dean_ , we can argue later!”

The older hunter deflates, he's not mad at Sam, he's pissed at himself. He'd recalled the way that Castiel had been hesitant to enter the building, and Dean had brushed him off and dragged him in anyway. If an angel thinks a place is off, _don't freakin' go in._ He's no better than the childish idiots that had reported this damn hunt in the first place, and it's almost gotten his best friend killed. “I know, Sam. Bobby's is _ten hours_ from here, there's no way Cas will last that long.” Not going by the pathetic wheezes of his breathing he wouldn't. “We go back to the motel, get him through the night, and hole up at Bobby's for a while 'till Cas gets his mojo back. We'll ward the whole damn town if we have too.”

It's a crappy plan, riddled with holes, but it's the best they can hope for. Between them both, they each sling one of the semi-conscious Seraph's arms over their shoulders and half-lead, half-drag the Seraph up and out of the room. The angel mewls softly at the jarring of his injuries, Dean is seriously starts thinking of potential ways to go about reviving Zephon for drawing that sound of his angel so he can fry the bastard with some holy oil.

Uzi scrambles after them, slowed down by the all of the damage. She's still wary of them, but she doesn't seem to want to be more than a few feet away from Castiel if she can help it. Dean gets how she feels. The guy looks like he wouldn't survive tripping over his own feet.

The whole porch and part of the front wall of the house has collapsed down on itself, Dean has absolutely no idea where that stupid creaky door got blown off to. They gingerly lead the Seraph down the steadiest looking parts of the wreckage, Uzi sliding down the same board she must have scrambled up, and aim for the Impala through the veritable jungle of overgrown weeds.

Sam's window is open an inch wider than it'd been when they left the dog behind. And they realise pretty quickly that she'd probably stood on the window handle and unwittingly rolled it down a little. Just enough for the stupid suicidal thing to clamber up the door frame and fall out of the damn window. She's lucky she didn't break her tiny neck. Great, now he's grateful for the freaking weeds, oh how the mighty hunter has fallen to a new low.

As it is, Sam leaves the Seraph leaning heavily on his brother and opens the rear driver's side door. It takes a lot of debating of _how,_ but Dean carefully eases them both across the back seat, the angel's good right wing tucked underneath him and the injured one resting half-folded on his left arm and side. Dean hadn't intended to end up pillowing the angel's torso against his chest, but the moment he moves the angel sags and the injured wing comes with in a hairs breadth of touching the front seat. Dean sighs and slides his arm around the front of his shoulder and the other along his back to brace him. He didn't sign up to be an angel pillow, but he growls and swallows the complaints on the edge of his tongue, his eyes threatening a painful end if Sam dares comment about it later.

Sam doesn't say anything, as if he'd thought this was the general plan in the first place, and hands Dean the blood soaked fabric of their jackets to continue pushing down on the gouges of the angel's wing.

As much as Dean's concerned about the angel, all of this blood is going to be a god damn nightmare to get out of the upholstery. He wonders if Grace can stain tan fabrics.

It's difficult to get the back door shut with the angel curled on the seat without shutting his flight feathers in the door, and honestly, Castiel is in bad enough shape as it is without adding shredded feathers to the list. They manage it eventually, the long stiff feathers curling around to press along the driver's door and Sam's going to have to get in the front passenger side to avoid them slipping free again.

Dean watches his younger brother out of the window, chuckling lowly at the way Sam turns and nearly trips over his own feet to avoid stepping on a terrified looking Uzziel who's too small to climb in by herself. Stooping, his huge baby brother scoops up the Scottie and drops her in the front, making a show of doing up the window before shutting the door again and running back into the broken house to get the rest of their gear.

There's a heavy silence when Sam leaves, only being broken by Uzi's broken hearted whimpers from the front that she can't get to Cas, and the angel's ragged breathing. It's an awful symphony, and Dean finds himself calling out a soft “Calm down, Uzi,” to the damn thing. And oddly enough, it draws a small almost smile from the Seraph half dead on his lap. “What are you smirking at?” He bites out, because damn it's good to see the angel is still somewhat with it, even with the pressure Dean's forcing down on the gory wounds on his wing and the fact that he is is starting to feel cool against his fingertips.

“Y-You're...fond, of her” it's a soft, hitching accusation, with nothing but wry amusement at its core.

Dean makes a show of scowling, “Dude, I will shove you off,” he threatens instead, bristling at the thought. “You know how I feel about her, Cas. She can't keep travelling with us.” It's hollow, they both know it, and the bastard actually huffs, as close to a laugh as the angel ever seems to come.

“Snicker all you want, you winged asshole. My baby, my rules.”

Castiel coughs wetly, groaning at the pain and curling into himself as much as he can, Dean thinks the shaking is turning into shivering. “Stop talking you idiot, how the hell have you lived for so freaking long?” The hunter snarks worriedly.

The Seraph seems to regather himself a little after the haze of sharp pain begins to dull again, he humours Dean's petulance. “...Luck,” he groans softly, left wing gingerly curling closer under the increasing pressure from Dean's hands.

Dean snorts fondly, tightening his arm around the Seraph's chest to steady him better. “Well it's certainly not from common sense, dude.”

Castiel's pained hum of exhausted agreement is lost in the sound of the Impala's trunk opening for a moment, before slamming closed again. Then Sam's sliding in the passenger side, moving Uzi out of the way, and shoving the key in the ignition. The engine purring underneath them has never sounded so sweet, because for as much as the angel seems to have relaxed, the two jackets Dean is using to stop the bleeding are soaked through, the hunter can feel it coating his hands and smell the metallic tinge on the air.

They're pulling out onto the creepy, tiny trail that led up to the house when Dean notices something hot seeping through the inside of his left sleeve. It makes his blood run cold because though it's close where his arm is resting along the angel's back and on the curled joint of his right wing, it's not close enough to the injured shoulder to be getting soaked liked this. Steeling himself, he gingerly moves his hand up, spotting the deep red stains on his shirt sleeve; the hunter takes his first real look at the Seraph's back. His trench coat, suit jacket and once white shirt have all been shredded, but Dean had just put it all down to the Grace that had exploded from the angel when the hooks first hit him. Now, he's starting to think differently. Pulling at the blood soaked coat, the angel grunts lowly, shivering hard against the seat and wisps of light begin leaking out from under the sticky fabric like heavy white smoke.

“Shit, Cas. Your back get hit by those damn things too?” Castiel just groans as Dean slides his hand in through the largest tear of his coat and tries to feel the size of the wound through the darkness, “Why didn't you say anything?!” That god damn beam must have been crushing right down on top of it. Dean couldn't be sure, but it felt long, a curling slash under the base of the left wing, curving down around his side to the top of his hip. It was bleeding like a bitch too. At least there wasn't actually a hook this time.

“...Di-didn't. Realise.”

Sam is shooting them worried glances in the rear-view mirror, and Dean grits his teeth and urges Sam to drive faster with his eyes. The younger Winchester pushes the Impala to a speed that is borderline dangerous. Castiel is shivering in earnest now, his breathing still sounds terrible, but it also seems faster than before. The hunter reaches for the angel's neck, pressing his fingers down cautiously and sucks in a tight breath, he's never felt anything like it. His heart is starting to pound in his ears. “Sam, he's going into shock. I didn't even know angels could go into shock. Hell, I didn't even know they needed to breathe.”

His younger brother looks at him in concern before turning his eyes back to the road. “Those blades hit the centre of his Grace right? Maybe it's like when he was falling? He's lost a lot of his Grace so he's getting more and more reliant on Jimmy's body?” It's a bold guess, a lot of assumptions and not a lot of proof. But the idea makes a weird sort of sense, his true form is badly injured and his vessel is responding the same way.

If Castiel cares that they're talking about him like he's not there, he doesn't show it, just pants through it all and shivers for the first time in his life.

“I don't know, man. This isn't exactly our pay grade.”

The Hunter glances at his watch through the dark. It's been just over half an hour since they arrived at that god damn house.

_Half an hour._

Half an hour ago they were arguing references to _The Shining_ and Dean was secretly listing off his favourite foods in his head to see what reaction the Seraph's wings would have to the different tastes. He'd been worried about the lack of solid info for the case, sure. But how the hell could it go so badly?

And now he's looking back, it's damn painful how obvious this trap was.

Castiel having his wings manifested against his will was probably just an unfortunate single incident, it didn't feel as if the same witch that had hexed him would have tried to kill him afterwards. Besides, it strikes Dean as below an angel to ask for a meagre witch's help, what with angels being the stuck up, prideful bastards they are. But that this hunt just fell into Bobby's lap, so conveniently stuck on their path, with no other hunters anywhere nearby and in such a remote location? Just after Castiel starts flashing his wings? No way was that normal, and Dean's been through too much shit for him to believe in coincidences any more.

It gets worse the longer he thinks about it. The wife's spirit had barely showed herself, but even if only her husband had been salted and burned (or rather, smited), Castiel had destroyed the others with what ever he'd done after the ambush. But that still only left three spirits. And the witnesses _had_ mentioned four. Dean had written off the whole thing as kids being stupid and unreliable and how much faith can you put in a bunch of brats that had wandered into a remote, supposedly violently haunted, derelict house? Chances were, that fourth prick had been Zephon himself. Dean had no idea how he bound those spirits to his will, but as a creature that can bring someone back to life, he doesn't think it's beyond an angel to do. He would ask Castiel, but he really doesn't seem up to conversation at the moment.

Zephon hadn't been surprised to see Castiel's wings either. So Dean could only assume he'd either been following them, or had stumbled across a rumour. And the only ones who knew where the Seraph was and the problem he had, were him, Sam, Bobby and...Castiel's lieutenant. _Fuck._ That meant there was a traitor on the God Squad's less Dicky team.

Was there anyone out there other than the Winchesters and Bobby that didn't seem to want Castiel's wings hung on their wall?

It makes sense Castiel had been hesitant about going into the old house in the first place; angelic senses picking out something weird about the spirits but not knowing what.

This was looking more and more dangerous for the Winchesters. Their angel has a clear hit out on him, not that he hadn't always before, but this feels more serious than before. Dean will be damned, again, before he leaves Castiel to fend for himself after getting him into this mess; but there have been more than enough chick-Flick moments already tonight and Dean is trying to salvage what's left of his masculinity; his man-card is going to need more stitches than the god damn angel by the end of this night.

His younger brother's hesitant tone quickly shakes the older hunter from his thoughts. “Think we should call that angel, Rachel?” It's not a solid question. Sam's not stupid, he's figured out that something isn't quite right up there in Heaven with Castiel's subordinates, but at the same time, Castiel is an _angel_ , he would be better off with angelic help. If they can't take him to hospital, surely his own kind is better qualified than the hunters are.

Dean's opening his mouth to reply that he has no damn idea when Castiel weakly mumbles, “N-No.”

“Cas. I don't wanna let them near us either. But you're in real bad shape, Buddy. I've never stitched an wing back together before.”

“...S-Something is, _wrong_ in Heaven, I, I don't want them anywhere near you.” The words are slurring into each other and he's clearly getting worse, but he still manages to do that infuriating Cas thing of saying something that meaningful and slamming them with it bluntly. “Just...this, dangerous for you.” He's referring to just being near them, and Dean knows that tone of voice. If the angel had the strength to move, he'd have flapped off ages ago to keep the angels away, probably still plans to try.

“No way, Cas.” Sam snaps from the front, surprising both of the back seat passengers because Dean was half-way voicing the same thing and it's not like Sam to shout at the angel. “You're in no shape to do anything, let us help you, we'll deal if anyone comes searching. We're not helpless.”

Dean nods his head in agreement even though the angel hasn't opened his eyes since leaving the mansion. “Damn straight, Cas. You'd rip us a new one if we took off in your shape” It's true and they all damn well know it, more so in Dean's case than Sam's, if only because he doesn't think Sam would be dumb enough to try, but the point is still firm. “But, you sure there's no one we can get?”

The seraph shakes his head. He lost most of the trust he'd had for all of his brothers and sisters the moment they first strapped him down and tortured him for feeling any form of connection to his human charges. The angels he's fighting beside look to him as a leader, but that's it. There's not the camaraderie there once seemed to be. Maybe that's because, before, he'd thought that his family had been close-knit and unbreakable. An unshakable unit. And then, after being shown what family should really be like by the Winchesters, Heaven's ties had all seemed so hollow.

Most of the angels that Castiel has ever considered true friends, even after having his standards altered by meeting the Winchesters, are dead. And the ones that aren't, are now fighting against him. No, there was no _angel_ that Castiel trusted anywhere near him when so vulnerable.

He'd take his problematic Winchester brothers over his family any day.

Dean sighs moodily, his anger at God and Raphael and just Heaven in general bubbling back to the surface. Sometimes he felt for the angels. The poor bastards were practically made to be God's slaves, to do anything the bastard, or archangels, demanded. And god help any of the poor saps that just happen to have a sense of morals and a conscience, no matter how stunted, because then the rest of the family will hunt you the fuck down and _torture_ those feelings out of you. All the while preaching love, and forgiveness, and family.

It makes Dean so fucking sick that Castiel still has so much blind faith in his Father. The poor idiot tries so _damn hard_ to stop the mess his older siblings keep creating, and all he gets is his so called family trying to rip him apart.

Dean suddenly gets why the angel had been so ready to throw in the towel when pinned under that beam.

It makes him damn furious, because honestly, demons he gets. Tortured and twisted from fucked-up or clueless human souls into something pure and evil. Angels have no excuse, at all. All that divine power and all most of them want is a mass human genocide.

Castiel shakes violently under the hand on his injured wing, but it's so different to the agonised tremors and shock induced shivering, that it draws Dean out of his thoughts and down to the glassy, blown-wide blue, looking at him from the corner of his eyes. There's a hurt anger in his eyes that makes Dean realise that the angel can sense his thoughts somehow, and that tired blue is screaming betrayed defiance at him that his family is _nothing_ like demons.

Dean wants to agree, he really does, but he can't. The crippled wing tries to move from under his hand, and Castiel is trying to pull away suddenly. It's fucking terrible to hear as he huffs desperately against the scalding pain of his wings, moaning softly, and tries to shift away from the hunter.

His stupid god damn wings. Dean knew they were sensitive, but now he's hedging a guess that his touch is like a billboard for the hunter's emotions, loudly bombarding the angel's senses with all of Dean's hatred of Heaven and Castiel's messed up family at every touch. “Hell, Cas.” He mumbles quickly, pulling the angel back from where he's struggled an inch or two away, a little petrified at how easy it is when the Seraph clearly doesn't want to. He rests a hand back on the jackets stemming the blood flow, and strokes his other through the few mussed feathers of his right wing he can get to at this angle. He wants to see if he's right about them, and tries to concentrate on being calm. He buries his anger and frustration with all of the other crap emotions in that tight, locked box of shit he doesn't want to think about, and tries to focus on being just plain _calm._

It doesn’t seem to do anything at first, the Seraph had given up trying to move away from the pain of Dean's thoughts and assumptions and was just gasping weakly against him, blue eyes still staring at him as if he just kicked Uzziel. And then, the betrayal seems to soften, gaze falling hooded and glazed over with sleepiness rather than the emptiness of the shock and Dean knows it's working. Braver, he silently apologises, it must have been like kicking the angel when he's down, an: _Oh, hey Cas. I guess Zephon just tried to rip the heart of your Grace to shreds, but you know, I told you your murderous family is worse than Hell-spawn, and hey, I'd also kinda like to kill your Dad._

Way to be a friend Dean Winchester.

A low rumble vibrates the Seraph's chest, the sound warring with the painful noise of his panting, and Dean knows he's forgiven. He smirks despite himself, pleased and relieved, and another rumble breaks out in response. “Dude, you're a damn kitten, you know that?”

Sam is watching with an expression Dean would quite like to wipe off of his brother's face, all smiling and knowing and _Aw, cute. The angel and my brother are bonding_. It's threatening to shoot a massive hole in Dean's manliness and he flips the younger hunter off, growling at the smirk Sam can't completely hide.

The Impala rumbles over a freaking canyon of a pot-hole and the angel full on whimpers in response, choking around the quiet noise and shivering fiercely. It breaks the relief that had been building since leaving that death trap behind them into tiny pieces. They may have gotten out of the ambush, but it's one hell of a drive to the poor safety of the _Flamingo,_ and Castiel is getting worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also: I did quite a bit of research Castiel's wings before I started this story, and I spent a while wondering just how large the muscle area surrounding his wings would be, and my conclusion was huge. I mean, the humerus of a wing for a six foot guy would easily be the width of my leg - Just in case anyone was confused :)


	9. Running On Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pinned down and strained, Castiel's hanging on by a thread and the boys need a plan, and they need one now. 
> 
> Alternatively: Who knew dogs could glare like this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warnings for Blood and terrible run on sentences

Adrenaline thumps through Dean's veins like molten lead, the beginnings of desperation and panic infiltrating his control no matter how tightly he tries to lock it all down. In the mansion, his emotions had been smothered by his hunter's instincts leaping into autopilot. Now it's wearing off.

They're not far from the motel, the black forest is beginning to leak back to out-skirt suburban roads; Sam is breaking every speed limit ever set in a frighteningly accurate portrayal of his impetuous older brother. Dean would be proud if he wasn't god damn vibrating with worry.

Castiel is getting worse, there's no escaping it. He's never exactly been someone that looks as if he sees enough sun, but it's frightening how pale and clammy his skin is now; cooler under his finger tips, the erratic pulse in his wrist becoming thready and harder to find. The speed of his agonising sounding breaths are increasing, but the depth of them is going in the opposite direction, like he can't possibly breath deeply enough through the pain and he's going faster to compensate for his vessel's sudden self-dependency. He won't stop shivering. The battered angel is still just about conscious, and Dean wants to keep him that way for as long as possible, at least until they get back to the motel. He doesn't trust the Grace swirling faintly in the Seraph's glazed, hooded eyes.

Had that stupid mansion really been so far away? It feels like they've been driving for hours, surely they must be close to that damn motel room by now!

Dean's got half a mind to command Sam to just pull into the next motel they come across and screw the other one, when they finally screech into The _Flamingo Motels'_ parking lot. There's only one car parked up now, and there aren't any lights on in any of the rooms apart from the dim light shining through the main door windows, Dean's never been so thankful for a slow night at a motel before. Sam pulls the Impala up as close to their room as he can get, the Impala's possessive growl quieting as he jumps out. Grabbing Uzziel, the taller brother runs to unlock their door, covering the distance with three long strides.

The older Winchester grimaces unhappily, reluctant but driven to try and shift the injured Seraph back into some form of awareness while he waits for Sam to come back and help drag the angel indoors. It will be far less painful for him if he can help himself. Castiel groans softly at the shaking, but groggily forces open white streaked eyes; Dean's never been so disappointed not to have the piercing stare running him through. “C'mon, Cas. One more trip then we'll sort you out, you'll be flapping around Heaven again in no time.”

The angel doesn't seem to have the strength left to answer him properly and Dean has to manage with a murmured sound that frankly could mean anything from _All right, Dean_ to _I really doubt that._

Frowning, he jumps when Sam knocks on his window. Sparing a hurried glance around the parking lot for anything that could be considered threatening, Sam carefully pulls open his door, wary in case Dean hadn't got the message and was still leaning on the frame. It's hard to coax the angel into helping them get him out of the Impala. Castiel is weak, cold, exhausted and in pain. And the only thing he wants to do is lay there and soak up Dean's warmth. Vanity and pride mean nothing to him at the moment, the pain is fierce and raw, exhaustion racking his vessel's bones. For the first time in his life, all he wants to do is curl up and sleep.

There's probably something seriously dangerous about that, but Castiel isn't in the presence of mind to care about much of anything.

The clearer it becomes that Castiel doesn't want to move, the more resigned Dean gets that this is going to be hard from the get-go. Sliding his leg out from where it had been half bent beneath the Seraph's side, Dean hooks his arms around the angel and pulls him out along the seat whether he wants to leave or not. The angel whimpers in pain before he can try to stop the noise, it makes the hunters cringe that they can't help it. Grabbing an arm each, they help the battered angel up the steps and into the hastily rearranged motel room.

Sam's pushed the two double beds next to each other, taking off both comforters and leaving them in an untidy wrinkled pile in the corner. The bedside table that had once held the lamp is on top of the small desk, each of its small legs near to a corner of Sam's laptop that sits beneath it. Uzziel is a shivering mess in the corner of the room, watching them gently lower the Seraph down onto his chest near the middle of the right-hand queen bed with wide eyes, hunched shoulders and lowered ears.

For probably the first time ever, Dean feels sorry for her. He doesn't have the time of day to do anything about it, he has more important things to deal with.

Sam disappears the second the angel is down, leaving Dean to steal all three of the motel room towels out of the bathroom and pull the desk chair up to the left side of the beds. Castiel's right wing is curled defensively close to his shoulder, the edge resting lightly on the spare mattress space beside him, the left is hanging limply across the other bed beside his, dyeing the fabric red already. In the brighter lights of the less than sterile motel room, Dean gets his first proper look at the damage.

Oh, this is so beyond his pay grade.

The gashes in the angel's wing are _appalling_ even by seasoned hunter standards.

There are a few secondary coverts missing, a handful of marginal coverts and scapulars torn out, and one secondary primary missing that's shaft must have been ripped out under the beam. Every single missing feather has left a small, blood crusted wound behind.

And that's the least of the damage.

The two shallower gashes have stopped bleeding, and they look more like harsh thick knife cuts rather than tears from god damn massive angelic meat hooks. There's blood matting the feathers together around both of the small injuries, dulling the feather's once glossy, healthy shine, and Dean knows it'll have to be washed off properly before any of it can be untangled. They're sure as hell not pulling any more of them out, that's for damn sure.

He's a little bit relieved at the site of the two wounds actually, neither of them look like they need stitches. The bigger one of the two is pushing it, but Dean would rather put as few holes as possible into his friend's hypersensitive limbs if he can help it. He's certain they have some butterfly tape left in their make-shift first aid bag and that'll have to do as a replacement.

The other two wounds actually make Dean feel a bit light-headed, he's not seen muscles torn this badly in someone still breathing since his stint in Hell. The worst one starts as a shallow slice along the curving top line of the angel's wing, the damage just enough to break through the thin membrane but not enough to do more than scratch the radius beneath it. Then it gets ugly. The hook must have really dug in hard because there is a several inch gash at an odd angle moving down to the angel's side. The blade must have well and truly delved into the muscle beneath because the gash is deep, raw and jagged. It had gone down deep enough to literally hook around the angel's Ulna and tear all of the muscle and tissue between it and the bone. It looked fucking _gruesome_ if he was honest and Dean's glad he's not actually touching the wing because he doesn't want Cas to know just how bad the damage is. He's lucky the ulna didn't snap like a twig when the hooks were forced sideways. It probably would have if they weren't as thick as branches.

The other deep wound _looks_ worse than the first, but as Dean saw at the mansion, it's a little shallower. This one, unlike the others, goes sideways from beside where the other hook had sunk in in earnest, following the middle of the bone structure of the wing towards the “wrist”. It's several inches long, maybe four or five inches more than his hand-span, and despite being shallower than the other one, it's still frighteningly deep. The hook has ripped clean through the muscles along the wing, clawing up jagged flaps of awfully damaged muscle and skin, taking off several feathers at the same time.

Both of them are still bleeding, both blood and Grace, this angel can't really afford to be losing either of them.

Pressing down on the two deeper ones with one of the towels, the angel whimpers lowly again, trying to move the crippled limb away, but too weak to actually manage it under Dean's unrelenting grip. Castiel growls low in his throat despite the pain, the wing tugging against the hunter's grasp. The bleeding is sluggish compared to what it'd been in the mansion, but Dean's not so sure that's particularly encouraging.

A muffled thump of the Impala's trunk closing and another, softer, click of the motel door being shut has Dean glance over his shoulder to his brother. Sam had collected their duffel bags, but most importantly, their medical supplies. Coming up to his brother's shoulder, Sam turns concerned, inspecting eyes to the lethal looking slashes mangling Castiel's wing. There's a sharp pause. Sam gave his brother a sharp look. This was going to be a lot of work.

Sighing, Dean just responds with, “hold this.” Motioning to the pressure he was ramming down on the bleeding gashes. “I need to check the ones on his back.” It would be way too much work to get the angel's clothes off him, and Dean just grabs some sharp-ish scissors and slices through them instead. It's a little unnerving to be peeling the angel's coat away from him; it's weird seeing him without it. It wasn't much; thin tan fabric that wasn't even needed for warmth or as a defence against the elements most of the time, but it feels like ripping away Castiel's armour. It doesn't _feel_ right. Chucking the shredded fabrics away to the bloody pile of jackets Dean has thrown by the wall, he decides the angel looked utterly pitiful without them. He seems smaller somehow, more vulnerable and human. Nothing like the raging hurricane the Winchesters know he is. It's not the first time they've had the angel down for the count, but this is by far, the worst.

It doesn't help his appearance that there's a fuck-off massive bruise covering almost all the skin of the middle of his back, spanning from mottled dark reddish-blue to purple in colour, the left side faring better than the right from where the staircase had been slightly propped up. The hunter absently wonders if the bruises will heal faster than everything else because it's just the vessel that's damaged and not _Castiel_ inside it, or if it'll take longer because Cas has to work on healing his Grace first. He kinda hopes it's the latter.

Dean also gets to see the way the wings attach to his vessel; they sprout from the inside of each shoulder blade, the skin looking sore along the seven or eight inches where the huge limbs emerge, but not too painful. The scapulars of both wings rested all the way down each of his bare sides and didn't end till near his thighs. He can't even see Cas' right shoulder and side with the wing curled so close, the dust coated primaries' tips resting slack past his feet.

The moment the fabric's gone, Dean can see the deep slice across his back that he'd caught feel of in the Impala. It starts near the middle of his back, shallow over the back of his ribs and deeper as it curls down leftwards to a stop beside the slight dip of his waist. It's bleeding, but not as heavily as his matted wings. They've had more than enough experience over the years with claw marks to know that the damage isn't as bad as it easily could have been, it's in an awkward place to stitch and the wisps of holy light escaping it seem to taunt him of the fact. But Dean's convinced it can wait for the moment, he bundles up one of the motel rooms' white pillow cases and presses it against the deepest part. “Cas, can you hold this here?”

The angel is half-out of it, but his shaking limp left hand awkwardly moves to rest backwards against the bundle. It's not nearly enough pressure to be really helpful, but it's better than nothing. The hole in the back of his left shoulder is less reassuring. It's fucking deep by anyone's standards. Eyeing it worriedly, Dean doesn't have much of a clue for what they can do, it's bleeding thickly, the skin around it coated in smudged blood from his soaked shirt, newer trails of scarlet racing each other down his side. The hunter presses another pillow case against it and ushers Sam out of the way; taking the towel away from the injured wing and glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eyes. “You wanna ward the room, or play angel nurse maid?”

Sam backs away as if Dean's burned him, shaking his shaggy, dust covered hair with a _no way in hell_ look plastered on his face. “All yours, Doctor.” He blurts out in his haste to back away from the whole idea. It's not as if Sam has anything against Castiel, quite the opposite in fact, especially since the angel ripped him away from Michael and Lucifer's play pen. But, there is something about this, the idea of _Sam_ stitching _Dean's_ angel's wings back together, that feels wrong to the younger Winchester. He doesn't know what it is, but it feels like if someone like Rufus offered to stitch Sam up instead of letting his older brother do it. There's no reason that Sam can't stitch Castiel back up, but something is screams that it's _Dean's_ area, not his. Sam hasn't made much of a point to touch Castiel's new limbs the way Dean has, the younger Winchester has brushed against them a few times these last few minutes, but it's not the same. Sam wants to, sure. His curiosity about them is almost enough to make him burst with the pressure of keeping questions to himself; but touching a fully powered, _healed_ Castiel's wings, is completely different from a crippled one's wings.

It's not right and Sam hates the idea of it.

Dean raises his eyebrow as his huge baby brother leaps for a blood soaked jacket and pulls out the angel warding symbols Castiel had given them back during the apocalypse from John's journal cover. “Okay, jeez, Sammy. Freakin' wuss.” If only Dean's hands would stop shaking and his voice sounded more convincing. Castiel may have allowed the older hunter to touch the wings, but he has a feeling that's going to be rescinded the moment he actually starts trying to fix this freaking terrible bloody mess.

The bleeding is slowing, crusting around the surrounding feathers and Dean tries to see which feathers will inevitably get in the way and which ones he can avoid cutting short. He cringes when one of the blood coated coverts pulls away with the towel a few moments later and Castiel grunts miserably in response. The angel really isn't doing well. His breathing is still too fast, his wings moving with the force of his chest gulping in air so shallowly, so quickly. He's shivering like he's been dragged from a freezing lake and his face mushed against the pillow is scrunched up in pain; he's sweating too, and Dean adds that to the list of Things I Didn't Know Cas Could Do.

The next time he moves the towel, the bleeding, both blood and Grace, has almost stopped. He gets the feeling that this is about as good as he's gonna get. Chucking the soaked towel down on the bloody pile of used make-shift pressure bandages, he glances up at the tiny bathroom door. Sam drops the bedside table down beside Dean's chair with a bowl of almost-but-not quite hot water, as well as their medical kit, before Dean can even ask for some and he shoots his brother a grateful look.

The room is starting to look like the barn in which he met Cas with the growing number of wards Sam's plastering the walls with, this is gonna be damn hard to explain. He doubts they're gonna get their deposit back this time.

“Cas? You still with me, man?” He asks quietly, leaning forwards across the mattresses and laying a hand on the bare skin of his left shoulder, being careful of the wound there. The poor bastard's freezing and Dean pulls off Jimmy's dress shoes, grabs one of the comforters off of the floor, and covers him with it. Leaving the left wing clear, he tries not to think about how it's probably going to get coated in blood. Dean frowns at the lack of response. “Cas?”

An inconceivable mumble breaks out of the angel's chest, and Dean shakes the Seraph again. “Human Earth to angel Castiel? Come in, Spock?”

“...D-Dean?”

The slurred word makes him grin like an idiot for a moment that the angel is still here to sound confused. He sobers pretty damn quickly. “Look, man. This isn't going to be fun, you wanna pass the hell out? Go for it.”

Sam shoots him a clear bitch face, it's a risky thing to do; but Dean doesn't want Castiel to suffer through this any more than Cas probably wants too, even if they try and keep him awake for as long as possible, the chance that he'll make it through this still conscious is non-existent. There's a risk that he'll wake up halfway through and panic, but that one chance of pain through the oblivion has got to be better than this constant suffering.

Castiel seems to agree because he doesn't answer, over the few seconds his muscles release, his breathing still ragged, but not so bone-jarringly any more. He still shivers fiercely.

Dean smooths down the mussed feathers at the base of the angel's left wing and despite being unconscious, a small hum hits the back of Castiel's throat. Dean smiles morosely, damn _kitten._

His little brother shifts uneasily on the spot, halfway through painting up one last symbol. “You sure that's a good idea, Dean?”

“I wanna keep my eardrums, Sammy” The words fall from Dean's mouth nonchalantly, but their meaning is anything but. Dean's equating the injuries to the Seraph's wing to the mauling he received from the Hell-hounds that dragged his ass to “perdition.” The damage isn't just to the angel's manifested wings and his physical body, it's to his _Grace_ , the very thing that makes him up. And he needs to rest and heal it just as much as that slash on his side needs looking at. Because all of these injuries were made by angel killing blades, and so far, they've been damn lucky the blades haven't lived up to their namesake.

–

Stitching the two wing injuries closed turns out to be a battle in every sense. The angel may have been unconscious, but he twitches and tenses violently when the pain overwhelms, even through the thick wall of unconsciousness. Dean has to take several breaks for the shaking to ease off a little and the wing to settle again enough to work on. His right wing is a damn pain in the ass too, because that fucker is one hundred percent fine and Sam has been clobbered twice while painting a ward beside the window. Castiel may be incredibly weakened by angel standards, but there's enough strength in that wing to make Sam stumble off of his feet with one hit.

It's also hard to figure out just how to go about stitching them. The wounds are deep, and in a few places, really damn broad. Some of it's not exactly ideal for stitching and the places that are, seem to be painfully sensitive. It takes freaking _hours_. Cleaning as much of the crusted blood away from the lacklustre feathers as he can, picking out the small splinters of wood and dust that have managed to get _every-damn-where_ , before having a mental war about the best way to stitch the area closed.

When he finally finishes a small area it's lather, rinse, repeat.

It helps when he finally manages to convince Sam to look at the wounds on the angel's side and shoulder. They may be deep, but the gouges in his limbs seem the most life threatening of his injuries and Dean's not willing to leave them. Grimacing, his brother cleans the wounds, stitching them closed and and bandaging them as much as he can, before throwing the comforter back over their unconscious angel. He stalks around the room afterwards looking all the world like he never wants to do it again, and Dean really can't blame him.

Just when Dean doesn't really think Castiel could be in any worse condition than he's got himself into, naturally, Sam pipes up worriedly as Dean's figuring out just how the hell he's supposed to bandage a _wing_. “Dean... He's getting warm.”

Stalking over from where he's staring grouchily at the much abused feathers, the older hunter presses the back of his fingers against the nape of the angel's neck, feeling the warmth there. Castiel is still shivering, and Dean doesn't want to take the blanket off of him just yet, but Sam is right. He's not feverish as such, but the heat there is unnervingly high considering how quickly he's jumped there from freezing cold; especially when he happens to have lost what looks like most of the blood in his body, certainly more than the Winchesters could survive misplacing. “Shit.”

Sam nods in agreement and Dean runs a hand over his face tiredly, it's been one hell of a long day. “Phone Bobby?” He asks defeatedlly, trying to stretch out the crick in his aching back.

“Yeah...” After Dean figures out how to bandage the wing, there's not going to be much else they can do. Bobby's is like sanctuary in their mind. And if Cas is going to come crashing down with a fever, they'd all rather be in Sioux Falls than in this tiny motel room in Kansas.

The older hunter is half way through splitting the thick feathers apart from each other around the worst wound when Sam sets Bobby on loud speaker.

 _You Idgits know what time it is?!_ The harsh tone is groggy with sleep and general peevishness, but it's also failing to cover up the wary expectancy. _Which one of ya is it this time?_

The brothers glance at each other in tired amusement, just hearing the asshole's voice is somewhat reassuring. “Cas got his wing all torn up by some angelic Dick, “Zippy” or whatever.” The older Winchester explains lowly. There's a hard, thick, pause. “He's, er...He's not doing so well, Bobby.”

Bobby's end is quiet for a long moment, and it bites at Dean a little that he knows Bobby's glad it's the angel that's taken the hit and not one of the brothers. _You back at the motel?_

“Yeah, warded against pretty much everything.” Sam answers, and Dean's a little glad to see Sam's frowning as well. It's not Bobby's fault, they've known the older hunter since they were kids, he's practically their damn father. He doesn't know Castiel the way they do, and despite the news that both brothers are all right, there is a comfort that the gruff hunter still sounds grudgingly _concerned_ about the Seraph.

_You think angel boy's strong enough to travel?_

“No way, Bobby.” Dean answers immediately, carefully tying off the bandage in his hand. “Guy looks like he'd get taken out by a bee sting.”

_Well, I can't do much for ya till he is, Dean. You haul ass here the second you can, you hear?_

Sam's brow furrowed. “Bobby, this case was a trap to kill Castiel, we're pinned down in the same motel we arrived in and there's only a matter of time before the other angels come snooping. Can you keep an eye out for anything weird for us? I don't like being stuck out in the open like this.”

_I'll spread ears out in a minute, you boys be careful, don't leave that room till you have to._

“Sure thing, Bobby” Sam agrees, snapping the phone closed just as Bobby hangs up. “You think he'll be good to go tomorrow, today, whatever the hell time it is?”

Dean frowns darkly, glancing at his shivering friend and pulling out more bandages. “Don't know, Sammy. He'll never make a ten hour trip right now, if he's stronger later we'll make a break for it. Might set him back a day, but rather an extra day at Bobby's than another one in this damn bullseye.”

–

Castiel's fever turns from a low simmer to a flash fire.

Dean is chucking all of the blood stained fabric into the shower to maybe try and salvage it, Castiel's clothes excluded because the angel should be able to mend them himself later, when Sam stalks in quietly. Dean is still grumbling to himself that he reckons he's done enough for the Seraph for one day without freaking laundry when his little brother crowds forwards, shaking his head.

They'd been taking it in turns to catch a few hours’ sleep in the Impala between watching the angel's fragile condition, and the angel had just been getting steadily warmer and warmer.

It was mid-morning by now, and both hunters hadn't caught more than four hours since waking up this time the day before and both of them are feeling the strain on their tempers, snapping at each other hourly when switching watches until they were too rung out to sleep any more. The Seraph actually _looks_ a little better. His panting has eased and the shivering has become a constant fine tremble in its place, even the lines of pain around his eyes were starting to ease off. But, walking back closer to the unconscious angel's side, the flush of his skin was clearer and the heat coming off of him was anything but reassuring.

“You think he's got an infection? Or those sigils did something?” Sam asks tiredly, sinking into the small wooden desk chair that had taken up permanent residence to the left of the angel's two beds.

The older Hunter shakes his head, staring down at the bruised angel tiredly. “Hope not, I don't know if Cas can even _get_ an infection. Hopefully it's just from have his Grace scrambled and it'll go on its own, 'cause I don't know about you, Sammy, but I don't carry around antibiotics strong enough to work on a damn elephant.” He grouches. Injured or not, the angel's tolerance to drugs was infuriatingly high. He's hoping that maybe some morphine from Bobby's might take the edge off of the Seraph's agony, he's out of it, sure, but it's far from restful.

He would have gone out an stolen some from somewhere, but the threat of attack is still too much to risk straying far. Besides, Dean's secretly terrified of letting Cas _anywhere near_ narcotics if he can help it without Bobby there to act as a third eye.

Sam sighs in frustration at his older brother's snark; his patience is running thin and the longer they stay crammed together in this tiny room the thinner it seems to get. “If we're gonna make a break for Bobby's, you know we have to do it now. He's just gonna get worse, Dean.”

Dean growls thickly, it's not like he damn well wants to stay in this crap hole either. But they're going to be flat out open, they don't know for sure that any angel's other than Zephon was in on this crappy plan or not, but the idea to leave their bolt hole until the sky feels clearer doesn't sit right with him either. “That's a bold move, Sam.”

Even at Bobby's, there's not much they can do for Cas. They're not freakin' angel nurses. The stitching they'd done to put his wing back together was mostly guess work and Sam researching avian anatomy, and Castiel is not a damn bird. And that has nothing on how to care for an angel with shredded Grace. If they go to Bobby's the only thing they'll have that they don't have here is another grouchy hunter, and almost a bed each to sleep on.

“Dean! We're sitting ducks here! Look, I don't wanna move Cas either, but we're just waiting to get shot out of the water in this motel room!” Sam gets why Dean's digging his heels into the sand, but it's just plain obvious in Sam's mind that they need Bobby's to really go to ground in.

The older hunter sighs tiredly. “I know, Sam. But it bugs the crap out of me that we don't know anything about this freakin' Zippy.” His younger brother gains a look that Dean knew as _I have an idea but you're really not going to like part of it._ “What?" He asks warily.

Sam pauses, glancing thoughtfully at Castiel resting on the bed beside him. “What if they thought it worked?”

Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Dean quickly narrows his eyes at his brother in warning. Please, don't let this be the really stupid prequel to a dumb-ass plan. “Dude, what?”

“What if they thought Cas died in the trap?”

The older hunter snorts, only just swallowing the _Too early to say he hasn't_ remark back down. Some things are just better off not being said. “Sam, that happened like twelve hours ago, don't you think that maybe someone might have seen Zephon's dead vessel and crispy ass wings?”

Sam rolls his eyes like he always does when his brother tries to shoot him down before hearing him out. “Dean, what if there wasn't a dead vessel? What if we got rid of it? All they'd find is charred outlines. If Cas had died, there's no way we'd of left him there.” His brother is damn right about that, the angel would get a hunter's funeral at least... Though, he's never really thought about Jimmy before. Damn, what would they do? “Heaven's in a civil war right? If they know about Zephon's plan they _might_ not bother to check it until the fighting stops. Castiel said in the Impala a few days ago the fighting had started again, they might not of had enough time to check.”

Dean doesn't like where this is heading, pulling a beer from the pack on the table just to keep his hands occupied, he gives his brother a sarcastic glare. “Let me get this straight. You wanna go _back_ into that death-trap? To burn Zephon's cold, dead corpse, because the ninja squad might not have checked yet?” He snorts again; nope, that doesn't sound any less crazy said out loud. “And what the hell do you plan on doing if the prick parade does show up when you're there? And you're not exactly gonna be burning _bones_.” Hell no, Dean doesn't like this plan.

Standing, his taller brother sighs at him in that angry _I can't believe I put up with you_ way that only the younger sibling can manage. It rankles Dean every time he sees it. “If it works, they'll find out that Cas survived sooner or later, but we'll be miles out of dodge before they even come looking! Dean, you're worried, I get it, I do. But Cas isn't gonna just bounce back from this overnight, he needs a week or two to hole up. If Raphael and his goons think he's dead there'll be nothing to worry about. If we stay here they _will_ find us. And Cas won't survive it. None of us will.”

It makes an annoying amount of practical sense. Castiel “dying” throws the whole train off the assassin rails, and if it works, they'd have some more breathing space to find Heavens' weapons without interference. But there's a whole lot of “ifs.” “That's all well and good, Sammy. But what if they've already checked? Then we're still stuck here and the place could still be being watched. Which, as you just pointed out, seems to end a whole lot like the Three Little Pigs without the happy ending.”

Sam shakes his head, now clean princess locks flowing around his face as he does. “Doubt they'll be watching the house, and if they've checked they'll of taken Zephon, right? I'll duck in, if he's not there, I'll book. No harm done. But, if he is. I get rid of him, speed back here, we'll grab Cas before he gets much worse and get the hell outta dodge.”

Damn puppy eyes, and damn stupid plan. “Sam...” There's no chance of Castiel being left at the motel alone and unguarded, but the idea of Sam going into a potential war-zone, (and okay, he may be exaggerating,) goes against every instinct Dean has. It is a pretty sound plan though. “Fine, but I'm going. You stay here and watch Cas.”

His younger brother is shaking his head even as he says it. “No dice, Dean. Castiel gets worked up the moment you get too far away and you know it, that angel would try and follow you half-dead and unconscious if you get into trouble.”

Dean flat out baulks. “I'm damn offended about that, Sam” He bites out forcefully, but it's true and they both know it. Castiel only seems to stay settled when either Uzi or Dean is nearby, and the moment Dean left the first time to grab an hours sleep had the Seraph nearly frantic even when unconscious. Even as they were arguing, Uzi was curled up next to the Seraph's right shoulder, having snuck under the protection of his limply curled right wing. Sam was giving him the smug _I know I'm right, you know I'm right_ grin, and Christ, Dean wants to punch it straight off his stupid face. The younger Winchester had hypothesised, like the giant nerdinator he is, that it was to do with the tiny sparks of residual Grace in Uzziel from when she had latched on to Castiel. And since the angel had let slip at Bobby's that Dean had done the same thing, Sam thought the same rules applied to the brand on Dean's shoulder. Of course the angel would be calmer with tiny whole pieces of himself nearby that weren't injured.

Dean was down-right disturbed and affronted that he was being accused of hoarding a tiny sliver of Grace, mostly because there was no way that Dean's soul had _clung_ to Cas when being dragged out of the pit, Dean doesn't _cling_ to anything. Clinging is a needy chick thing to do, end of discussion.

“I'll be back in like an hour, just... see if you can stop his fever climbing, he gets any weaker, we won't be going anywhere for a week.” Sam's halfway through chucking his duffel over his shoulder, having checked to make sure Castiel's angel blade was still safely inside, and plucks up the Impala's keys from the bedside table.

“Be careful, Sam!” Is all he has time to yell grumpily as the motel door shuts behind his brother. He was sure that he hadn't agreed to this, how the hell did Sam do that? “Bitch.” He growls in aggravation.

There's a quiet moment of frustration. Sighing, the older Winchester turns back to the angel. Cas looks so _weird_ asleep. The constant frown was gone, and Dean could imagine him looking more relaxed if the lines of pain weren't still decorating his eyes; even so, his vessel looks younger when the weight of the world isn't there. The comforter was resting just above the small of his back, they'd awkwardly stripped the angel of his cheap black suit pants and replaced it with a grey pair of Dean's sweats. The suit had been plastered in grime and dust and blood and the whole thing had just been plain ruined, but he still looked weird without it. The giant bruise across his spine was beginning to turn more purple than reddish-blue, and with the bandages swaddled around his waist, and the wings framing either side, very little of the angel's skin was still clear.

It takes a few minutes, but it finally occurs to Dean that he's staring at the angel the same way Dean finds so unnerving when he wakes up to Castiel doing it. He averts his eyes to the ceiling with a huff of annoyance. If this god-damn place had an ice machine he'd stuff a pillowcase with some and pack that bruise properly; the entire thing was swollen and sore, just breathing must pull against it and hurt like a bitch. But then, next to a mangled wing, hook impaled shoulder and gashed side, he supposes a bruise being pulled is the least of the Seraph's concerns. The best Dean can do, is let the tiny sink in the bathroom fill up the small bowl they keep in the Impala in case they need to use a summoning ritual with water as cold and as clear as it'll go. Dipping in their last clean hand towel, he rings it out and rests it across the huge bruise. It'll help his fever as well so it's as much of a win-win as Dean can manage at the moment; even if the Seraph's soft-but-still-too-heavy breathing hitches at the shock of cool against hot skin. Uzi eyes the hunter from over black feathers with betrayal and mistrust. Jeez, this dog could hold grudges for the Olympics.

The shallow rumble he gets in return for the cloth startles the hunter. He's been repeating the same action of cooling down the angel's back and neck since dawn, and other than a few pained sounds low in the angel's throat and hitching breaths, Castiel hasn't shown any signs of waking up again. The angel's fingers twitch suddenly against the striped bedspread, his eyelids fluttering before Dean spots a shock of exhausted blue beneath them. The hunter doesn't notice he's held his breath until he goes to call out. “Cas?” Wiping his hands on his jeans, he rests his hand carefully on the angel's right wing.

Dean hasn't been making a habit of touching them while the angel was out cold. He's been damn tempted, but he's not sure how well Castiel would appreciate it. The left had been necessary, but the angel has made it impossibly clear that humans touching an angel's wing, a crippled angel at that, is something that's just not done. Doing it when the Seraph was unconscious to the motion felt invasive and wrong.

The human concentrates on being calm, thinking back to how it worked in the Impala, and ran his fingers through the still dusty plumage. He's not entirely sure if he's right about them being freaky empathy beacons, but he doesn't want the angel to panic either. “Cas? You with me, Buddy?”

Castiel coughs harshly, the action drawing a sharp grimace and another groan of unhappiness at everything in general, as if all he knows is that it hurts and hurts some more. It takes a few moments, the angel straining to get better control of his vessel. Gasping exhaustively, the Seraph shifts slowly, painfully sliding his right arm beneath his chest and rolling himself, panting, onto his right side. The left wing limply slides towards him, falling like dead weight across his arm, the elbow of the limb dips inwards and the angel noticeably grit his teeth. Uzziel seems put out and gets up as if offended, stalking around the edge of his pillow and snuggling down against his chest as the angel curls into a miserable, anguished ball around her.

Willing for patience, Dean sighs in annoyance that the first thing the stupid creature does is move when that's exactly what Dean _doesn't_ want him doing. “Cas! Lay still.” He barks, watching as the movement slides the towel off of his back and Dean growls, rolls it and places it against the curve of the angel's neck instead, trying not to wince in sympathy as the angel becomes a ball of agonised black feathers and shivering pale skin. He walks around to sit on the other bed.

Just the small action of moving to his side leaves the Seraph out of breath and flushed. Uzziel whines at the hunter like she wants him to fix her owner, or else. “...Dean?” Castiel manages hoarsely, fever bright eyes falling on Dean's green and the human could collapse into a grateful heap that the faint wisps of Grace have left the angel's eyes. He sounds damn terrible, his usual gravelly voice even worse than usual and his breathing still doesn't sound anything close to right.

“Yeah.” Christ, Dean's so freaking relieved. “ This might be a stupid question but, how you feelin', Buddy?”

It looks like it steals some hard fought energy, but Castiel manages to send Dean a look that tells him _exactly_ what he thinks of that question. Jesus his angel is so damn badass, he can't help but chortle at the unimpressed stare, pissed off is so fucking much better than dead. The angel's narrowed blue eyes droop quickly, he breathes softly, flinching at what the hunter recognises as an unexpected spike of pain, probably because of his shoulder, or maybe his side.

The hunter would murder royalty for an ice machine.

Wincing harshly, the angel seems to cling on the the low timbre of the human's voice. “Dreadful.” Is Castiel's eventual answer, and the Winchester decides that an angel of The Lord, curled into a ball of pain, sporting Sam Winchester taught puppy eyes, is the most pitiful sight in existence. It doesn't help that there is an actual puppy peeking out at him from under the bandaged limb.

“I was aiming for something more specific, Cas.” Dean can't get rid of the stupid grin on his face. It probably comes across as really freaking patronising to the fevered angel, but there's literally nothing the Seraph could do right now that could piss him off. Hell, he could hand Dean another dog right now and the hunter would just be like _you know what, Cas? You want another puppy, fucking go for it._

It's a good thing the angel seems to be struggling to stay awake too much to notice the rare indulgence on the hunter's face.

The feverish gaze turns down to the space below the side of Dean's hip and Castiel catches his first glimpse of his shredded wing. Which, shit; was totally what Dean forgot to try and avoid. The blue widens impossibly, memories hammer back into 3D surround-sound focus after being made dull from the natural heaviness of fevered sleep. There's an appalling moment where Dean can see the angel reliving the moment of hook-impact, and his breathing speeds up instantly; the pain from his vessel barely noticeable and smothered because _that is his wing._ _No, no his wing doesn't look like this. His wing doesn't_ hurt _like this._

Dean's hands come down on Castiel's forearms the moment the Seraph freezes, breathing hitching hard and speeding up as the angel's eyes catalogue the damage and the pain _crashes_ into him again. The hunter has to admit it looks pretty bad. The whole centre of his wing is split into several clumps of long feathers, pushed together tightly to let the bandages brace the two huge gouges in his wing. It looks messy and probably weighs a hell of a lot more that he remembers, but there are feathers poking out at odd angles and Dean sees the instant the Castiel realises he's missing one of his secondary primaries in his suddenly huge blue eyes. The guy is so damn close to hyperventilating and it's probably doing hell to the hole in his back.

“Cas! It's not as bad as it looks.” He shouts, trying to make the angel look at him and not his wing. It does nothing and the human slides closer across the queen on his knees above the crippled wing, shaking the angel's left shoulder gently and forcing his chin up. “Look at me, man. Cas, it's not as bad as it looks,” he repeats gently, carefully avoiding the bandage on his shoulder. The angel swallows hard, and Dean's not prepared for the intensity of blue that pierces straight through him, fever and panic and disbelief are the only things in there and Dean _really_ wants to skin Zephon alive. He'd give every dime he's ever “earned” for five minutes with him on his rack.

“You had two hooks get jammed in real good. I don't know if you remember it, but we got them out fine, Cas. I'm not gonna lie to you, you're torn up pretty bad here,” he points to the area where one hook had curled around the Ulna, “and here,” he adds, pointing at the huge slash sideways in the limb. Before he points to the two smaller ones that Cas can't see from where he's lying. “You got two smaller ones here. But, Cas. It'll heal, you didn't even break anything, I know it must suck, but it'll heal, Castiel.” Dean keeps his tone soft. Castiel's full name always feels strange rolling off of his tongue, it always reminds the human of the differences between them and he's never quite sure how to feel about that. But whenever he does say it, it's never failed to catch the Seraph's attention. The angel's eyes follow where he points gingerly, as if afraid to know, but he still looks spooked as hell, before fixing back to the hunter with the sound of his true title. “I promise, man.

“You got a fever though.” He adds after a moment when the angel seems less geared up, breathing starting to ease back to that rough-but-could-be-worse rhythm. “You had a hook in your shoulder, and got sliced up pretty bad on your side too, and your back looks like a three year Old's easel that only supplied red and purple paint. But, other than a few nicks and scrapes, you're gonna be fine, dude.”

 _'You've also lost most of the blood in your damn body too, but I'm sure as hell not gonna tell you that_.' He thinks bitterly as Cas finally nods, carefully releasing a steadying breath, wincing as it hits against badly bruised ribs.

The small silence that falls isn't uncomfortable, Castiel's eyes, despite being fever bright, are taking stock of the hunter. And Dean's seen it enough time to know he's been scanned for injuries. There are none, he's bruised, sure, but that's almost a daily occurrence and not something he's unused to. “Where's Sam?” Castiel asks tiredly, eyes finally leaving Dean, apparently satisfied at his condition, before glancing lethargically around the room.

Dean tries not to hesitate, if Cas knows Sam's at that damn mansion he might get just as strung up about it as he did. And Dean's not fooled by the angel's _I'm_ fine attitude he's trying to slip into place. He looks run dry, the usual bruises under his eyes even worse than normal, he's wincing in pain but trying not to let it show and Dean can tell from the way he closes his eyes suddenly that he's dizzy and probably more than a little disorientated. The hunter almost misses the shock induced lack of angelic pride. _Almost._

“Supply run” He answers nonchalantly with a shrug, frowning at the towel sending droplets down the curve of the angel's throat into the pillow and reaches across to pluck the bowl up from behind the angel and balances it shakily on the bed.

Castiel's tired eyes squint at the hunter and Dean knows he's not convinced. It seems he's too tired to push the thought though and frowns at the hunter instead as Dean slides the towel off of his neck. Glassy blue eyes track the movement sluggishly and it makes the hunter frown at how warm the damp towel feels already.

Dropping the scratchy fabric back into the bowl, Dean laid his palm across the shivering, sweating Seraph's forehead. Castiel's still sluggishly tracking the movement, but he makes no move to stop the hunter; Dean wishes he knew if it was because he physically can't, or is trusting him. “Damn, Cas. You're friggin' burning up, man.”

Castiel just stares weakly at him with a _Nah, really?_ Glance. And not for the first time, Dean wonders how much sarcasm the asshole has picked up from him, or has just been set loose now the moron isn't obeying ever order thrown his way “My Grace is...Badly damaged and is unsettled, I am...injured quite severely.” The poor bastard actually sounds apologetic about that.

“This isn't your fault, Cas. I shouldn't have pushed to go in, you sensed it was freaky the moment we got out the Impala.”

The angel's eyes slide shut and he sighs softly, groaning quietly as Dean wrings out the towel and drapes it back over his neck, shivering harder. “T-That wasn't your fault either. But, there'll be angels after me.”

Dean rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Dude, we went through this. You're staying with us until you can shove that stick right back in your ass.” He ignores the way the angel seems to leer at him in mild annoyance from under hooded eyelids. “If you think you can handle it, we're gonna book back to Bobby's today.”

Castiel tries not to show a grimace at the idea of moving at all and isn't quick enough. “I'll be fine, Dean. I'm an angel, I can... “Handle it,” just fine.”

Dean chortles at how childishly petulant that sounds. “I dig your optimism, Cas. But, seriously, you aren't fooling any one with all this “fine” crap. You've got a fever of like, 104, maybe pushing 105. If you were human I'd be taking you to the damn hospital if it gets much worse.” As it is, the angel's shivering, weakly trying to pluck the comforter higher and curl his wings closer. His dark hair is starting to stick down to his forehead and there's sweat rolling down his face and back. It doesn't help his case when the Seraph quietly mutters that his head hurts and the light is too bright.

Not liking the sight, Dean shuffles off of the bed, making sure not to tip the bowl of water all over the mattress as he climbs back onto his feet. He'd been putting it off, and he regrets not doing it before the angel woke up. Grabbing the comforter, he pulls it off of the shivering angel in one go and Castiel actually _whines_ in protest. “Dean...” He grumbles darkly, weakly trying to raise his head enough to glare at the human. “I'm _cold.”_

Dean huffs a laugh at the resentful look being sent his way; like a cat that's had it's caught mouse taken away and is glowering vengefully from a dark corner “Sorry, Cas. Trust me when I say you're not. You can't have a blanket this thick with a fever this high.”

Maybe Castiel would recover faster than they had been worrying about. The attack had barely been twelve hours ago, and the angel was already far more focused than before. Dean can only hope that this fever doesn't drag him down too far.

The Seraph just collapses back down against his pillow, too exhausted to argue. He simply sighs quietly. “I'm an angel, Dean. I am not so weak as to suffer damage from hyperpyrexia.”

The hunter's grin slips, Castiel doesn't usually give in this easily on things like this. It doesn't bode well. Dean anxiously grabs the wash-cloth he'd forgotten to pick up earlier from the bathroom.

Glancing around the tiny brown and white motel room, he realises he doesn't have a thin enough blanket to let the angel keep. Dean doesn't often get sick as an adult. Growing up in the worst crappy motel rooms that America has to offer, the Winchester brothers had picked up butt loads of crap as children, and by now, Dean's immune system is like a solid wall, or at least it had been before Hell.

But, even so, he remembers how much it sucks to feel cold and sick and not have something to hide beneath. Not that Dean Winchester hides. Pausing, he peels the comforters' thin, awfully brown patterned cover off, drapes it over the Seraph's legs and pulled the curtains firmly closed to darken the room.

“Humour me, then.” He answers mildly, shuffling back to his previous spot on the bed, nearly breaking the TV remote that he had absently chucked there a few hours before and had forgotten about. Soaking the wash-cloth in the cold water, he wrings it out and lets it rest across the angel's forehead, the way Cas is curled up isn't ideal, but the guy was in too much pain to move. “Don't suppose a pain killer's gonna do much for you?” He asks quietly. The angel keeps grimacing at noises above a whisper, and yeah, Dean knows he can be a little rough, but he's not going to be an asshole to the guy. Castiel is keeping a strong front, but Dean's tortured people in Hell, he knows what they look like when they're trying to act like they're fine.

Castiel's eyelids are drooping again, he's still shivering miserably, but visibly tries to focus back on Dean's voice; as if it's the only grounding point in the entire room amongst his unsteady fever. “...I don't believe so.” He voices roughly, tone almost too low and quiet for Dean to catch.

Dean sighs in aggravation, there's painfully little he can do for the angel. Castiel's weak. Dean's seen the angel knocked on his ass before, back when the angel had first started Falling; and the stubborn bastard never wanted to stay still and rest. In fact, he usually spent his time glaring at either Winchester whenever they'd tell him to shut the hell up and rest for five freaking minutes.

And now the angel's barely tried to move, he'd sluggishly tugged the much thinner blanket up to his chin and was trying his best to melt into the mattress around his stupid dog. It doesn't help that his good wing has fluffed up; he looks like a sick and injured blackbird huddling for warmth in it's nest.

The guy's lethargic and it's so unlike him that it's spooking the Winchester all over again.

“Well...Sam just left, so we'll be stuck here for a while yet. Wanna watch something to take your mind off it?” It's a sad excuse for a diversion, but Castiel merely nods vaguely as Dean waves the remote and lets the hunter flick on the TV and scour the channels until he stumbles across an old batman movie. He hesitates only a moment before he carries on searching. The last thing the feverish angel needs to be reminded of is that his wing is shredded.

–

By the time that Sam returns to the motel room, they've seen two episodes of _Dr. Sexy. MD._

Well, they've seen one and some of another, Castiel had been slipping through the second one and Dean had finally snorted in amusement and told the stubborn ass to sleep.

His fever's pushed up another degree. Dean had spent half the time wiping down the sweat rolling off the angel's forehead and chest, and the other half explaining what was happening in the TV show to the culturally stunted, feverish angel. In the end, the hunter had received the impression the angel doesn't understand Dean's fascination with the show and had just been humouring him.

Uzziel looks up eagerly from her spot carefully curled in the crook of the angel's left elbow, just high enough that she can move without aggravating the bruised angel's mangled wing. Dean had complained that she was just helping him get warmer, but the angel had all but growled sleepily at him until Dean grumbled and gave in. It didn't help the Scottie herself was giving him the stink-eye during the muttered debate. You don't kick a man when he's down, and you don't take a puppy from a sick angel.

Glancing at the change of the Seraph's position and Dean now sitting cross-legged on the bed above the damaged wing, Sam looks a little relieved, dropping his duffel heavily just inside the door. “He wake up?”

“Yeah. Damn fried though, man. His fever won't stop climbing either.” His brother sank into the chair by the bed, his jeans were sprinkled with soil and grass stains and Dean could smell the smoke coming off of him from his spot on the bed. “Zephon was still there?”

Sam nods, looking worriedly at Castiel before glancing back up at his brother. “Yeah, place looks even worse in the daylight, man. You couldn't see it last night, but whatever Cas did...Christ, man, it scorched the _whole_ interior. Hell, Dean. There was less building still standing, than there was on the floor. Doesn't look like anyone's been there though. I buried Zephon's body, burned it too, hopefully it's enough to draw them off for a little while.” There was something in the way that Sam kept staring at the sleeping angel at his side that made Dean glad he hadn't gone there himself, like he couldn't possibly believe he was alive.

Sam doesn't say anything, but the entire floor where Castiel had been pinned under the staircase was coated in blood; smeared everywhere from where Dean had dragged the Seraph free and another huge pool where they'd pulled the hooks free. It had seemed bad enough in the dark, but now Sam's down-right amazed Castiel is still breathing. Angel or not, that was _a lot_ of blood. Far more than either of the brothers could have survived losing without argument.

“I gotta be honest, Sam. I still don't like the idea of moving him.” The angel's cooking a temperature of nearly 107. He was trembling constantly, sweat pouring off of him and Dean's wary that it could still push higher. He wasn't worried about the temperature as such, he was sure Cas was right that even a fever this high couldn't damage the angel's, or rather Jimmy's, brain. But it was taking a lot out of him all the same, and there wasn't exactly much left for the Seraph to give to begin with. He doesn't want to even imagine the type of pain a seizure would cause someone injured the way he is.

Castiel does look a lot worse since before Sam left, and even the younger Winchester was reluctant by now. “I don't want to either, Dean. But eight hours at a hard push to Bobby's...If he gets too bad we'll buckle down again. But staying in Hugoton so close to ground-zero...” It was just suicidal.

Dean groans loudly. He'd been thinking about it over and over again since Castiel had fallen back to sleep. The fact that he even needs sleep at all is more than enough of a warning about how weak he is, and if he didn't have this damn fever, Dean might feel a little less wary about stuffing him into something he describes calls a “metal cage” while sick and injured for a speeding eight hours. But at the same time, Sam's right. Castiel is a big enough problem for Raphael that he could come searching himself, and Dean doesn't put it past that asshole to wipe this whole city off the map just to be sure. “Fine, Sam.”

Waking the Seraph up again involves much grumbling, lethargic complaints and groaning. It takes so long that Sam actually manages to pack the Impala with all their crap and return the motel room back into some reasonable form of order before Dean's successful. The warding symbols on the walls were done on the cheaply varnished wooden panelling, and though they leave faint stains, they manage to get most of it off. The sheets for the two beds are beyond salvage and Sam stuffs the bloody fabrics into the trunk with their ruined, bloody clothes because leaving that much angel blood around is just plain stupid. They'll burn it properly later when they get somewhere safer and Castiel doesn't look like he's about to pass out just from being helped to sit up.

Uzziel seems to be as against the move as Dean is, trotting around the room glaring at them with irritated stares and tilted ears as they debate flipping the mattresses. For such a tiny little black ball of fur, she sure can get her opinion across with a look. Dean ends up spending a good deal of the time glaring back at her until Sam gets annoyed and snaps at him to focus. Damn mutt.

The angel himself is drifting between focus and being half out of it. Though when explained to him, slowly, because the first version went right over his head, he mumbles his agreement that it's the right thing to do. The way he shakes when Dean helps him up has the hunter doubting it immensely. The scalding quality to his skin hasn't become worse since Sam came back, and while a petty victory, Dean will greedily take anything he can get because the Seraph really does look fucking awful.

Castiel's left wing goes slack the second they help him stand, and he makes a sound deep in his chest between an agonised moan and a feral growl of pain when the gashes and stitches are pulled, every electrical thing in the building has a thirty second flicker-fest. The muscles along the limb are badly damaged, and though he _can_ move it, he'd rather have his other side slashed open because he's certain that would hurt a lot less. The Winchesters try not to push him too much and the angel is getting more and more irritated that he's being molly-coddled like a tiny fledgling even though he can barely stumble his way through two word answers.

All three are feeling the strain by the time they lay the angel across the back seat of the Impala like they had the night before, and Dean hesitates when Castiel is finally panting in relief and leaning against him again. Sam, the asshole, smirks at him, because he _knows_ Dean doesn't want to move for Castiel's sake. But at the same time, the Seraph is sick and injured sure, but he's not a friggin' child that Dean needs to baby sit all the way back to Sioux Falls. Castiel just seems so damn happy to have his injured wing resting slack against him again that he doesn't care if Dean's there or not. Hell, he probably hasn't even noticed.

Torn between Dean Winchester protective bear instincts and adult social boundaries, Dean growls and decides the whole thing is Sam's fault.

Because he fucking can.

Then he concludes that Sam is going to have to drive all the way back if Dean stays where he is and the older Winchester is freakin' exhausted. Deciding it's an apt punishment for Sam being a tremendous dick, Dean stays firmly where he is. Besides, he probably won't help Castiel stay cool by having him drawn against him like this, but it'll easier to keep an eye on him back here than in the front. Besides, he'd really rather watch for torn stitches and catch blood before anymore of it stains his poor Baby's seats.

Sam comes back from checking them out early just as Dean makes up his mind and the older Winchester plasters a thick, smug look on his face as his brother plops Uzziel down on the front seat after climbing In himself. Sam gives this look as cautious stare in the rear-view mirror before he shrugs it off like it doesn't bother him and starts the Impala.

The trio is speeding out of Hugoton just as a thunderstorm erupts over a broken shell of a house on the far outskirts of the city.

–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A day late again, I'm so sorry guys I'm really rubbish at remembering to upload.


	10. Almost Icarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's choices have his angel flying too close to the sun, and the consequences might be about to turn dire,

All things considered. This last day hasn't gone all that great. Hell, these last few hours haven't exactly been spectacular; but in a life where supernatural vendetta's follow you around like a bad smell, you take a tight hold of any small positives, no matter how puny they are. And moving Castiel to Bobby's in the Impala does come with one of these little sought after advantages.

Sam has the Impala roaring down the highway towards South Dakota, breaking through the set speed laws the second that pompous civil city life is left beyond the horizon. It's not a huge benefit, but having the back windows rolled down does a marvellous job in helping keep the unwell angel cool.

Which would've been perfect if Castiel wasn't shivering quite so violently. The Seraph's suffering chills, and despite the heat of his skin and the sweat pouring off of him, the cold wind whipping through the car does nothing for his mood. Even Dean's shivering by the end of the first hour of it, Castiel's raging heat had been warring with the cold flooding in like some kid of messed up angelic heating blanket, and as the angel cools off again, Dean begins shivering just as miserably. It's far from a cold day, but hitting a hundred and five down the asphalt sure makes it feel like one.

Their angel really isn't doing well. Despite the chills and heat, he's still in a catastrophic amount of pain; the subtle movement of the Impala not helping in the least. He's blearily complained of feeling light-headed and dizzy from the get-go, head pounding and limbs utterly weak as he pants quietly against the older Winchester. It makes for one truly miserable, tense atmosphere within the car. The angel grumbles if Sam turns on the radio, no matter how quietly; even the sound of the wind passing through the windows does nothing but aggravate his headache as he keeps his eyes scrunched shut to try and block out the dazzling daylight.

Dean's just grateful that the angel hasn't found it within himself to care yet that being sprawled all across the back of the Impala is not exactly flattering to his pride. God knows that while Cas isn't your usual run of the mill dick angel, there's still some angelic traits there that can really piss the hunter off on a bad day. Dean doesn't have patience left for the Seraph's flat snark that might start up if he manages to focus properly before they arrive. If he starts complaining, Dean's jumping in the front damnit.

For all of his hushed growling, the older Winchester's getting more and more concerned. As much as Castiel's tendency to stare irritatedly at Dean like he's being particularly _human_ pisses the hunter off, the longer they stay bunched up in the Impala, the more he wishes the angel _would_ start baulking.

Even with the constant influx of cold air, the angel's skin is still too hot for Dean's liking, and it really doesn't help that his injured wing is naturally trying to act as a feathered heating blanket. The severity of the shivering has the hunter worrying the stitches will pull through in Castiel's side and he keeps stretching to glimpse the white fabric swaddled around the angel's waist, looking for any blood leaking through. There hasn't been any yet, but the hunter isn't convinced it would stay that way for long. It's going to be hard enough to fix the upholstery as it is damnit.

By the end of the second hour, the Impala has just about passed the stupidly named “Great Bend”. They still had over seven hours to go and Dean's finally thrown in the towel and wound the windows up. Castiel had slipped back into unconsciousness nearly twenty minutes earlier and Dean was actually a little bit grateful for it. The Seraph has been moaning softy on and off as the fever was finally forced down back into safer waters, but the pain hasn't done anything but continue trying to make his head explode. He was exhausted, suffering, and his body was telling him it was freezing.

And all the Winchesters had been trying to do was make him colder. Needless to say he hadn't seemed all that grateful.

Sam's making good time; they've shaken nearly forty minutes off their ten hours, but it's still one hell of a long drive to the Salvage yard and there are some damn ominous looking storm clouds on the horizon. The last thing they need is a drenched road to add to the factors against a speedy drive. The brothers find themselves hoping like crazy that it's a natural storm. Dean doesn't know if Castiel still has the mojo left to subconsciously stir up a thunderstorm (and believe him, he's seen a few crackers in the time they've known each other), but he'd rather it be one of Cas' than someone else's.

All they could both do was hope the storm would hold off and that Castiel would stay blissfully unaware until they arrived.

He didn't of course. The angel lasts until the just under the sixth hour.

The Impala had just passed the city of Omaha and was straddling the Nebraska/Iowa borderline, Sam breaking every speed limit ever set. The windows are open again, though not all the way down as they had been earlier. Castiel's temperature had been fighting to rise back into the 104 territory and Dean wanted to beat it back down before it could crawl any higher again.

The angel had been sleeping more soundly than the hunters might have thought considering how bad a state he was in, but bearing in mind he wasn't meant to need sleep in the first place puts a downer on that quickly. He's been groaning on and off pitifully the whole journey, but it's not until the fifth hour when Dean's half dozing himself that Castiel _shakes_ and his injured wing rises up and smashes him in the jaw.

Dean swears loudly, jumping out of his cosy half aware state violently as the pain registers. Sam swerves sharply at the sudden outburst and hurriedly slows them down as he pulls off onto the highway's shoulder. Uzziel's whining kicks noisily up from the front.

“Cas!” The older Winchester shouts, nearly getting a mouthful of black feathers as the wing weakly thrashes and it's a good thing the angel is as crippled as he is because Dean has bad a feeling his neck might've been broken otherwise. The angel's shaking hard, and Dean had been sitting there long enough to feel the difference between that and shivering. He couldn't tell if it was a dream, and holy shit if it is because _Castiel is dreaming_ , or if it was the all the stress suddenly getting too much.

The Seraph grunts suddenly, jolting back awake against the hunter in pained confusion, blankly trying to find out where the hell he was and why he was in so much pain. Panting and trying to sit up, the hunter's hand carded through the few visible feathers of his right wing, and suddenly it was all _calm, safe, calm._

“Easy, Cas. We're not far from South Dakota.” Dean continued sliding his hand between the ebony feathers, relieved at the way the angel went slack again slowly, panting and groaning in pain sure, but looking less freaked than before. “It's just over two hours, man. Think you can make it that far?” The question is unusually soft from the gruff Winchester, Dean doesn't do chick-Flick crap, but he's not an asshole either. The guy's confused and at the end of his rope, the least the hunter can do is not bark at him.

Castiel sighs carefully, the trip back to Bobby's, of course. Sam and Dean thought it would be better for him to recover there. “...Yes, Dean” he mumbles back quietly, the sensation of calm flooding him from his right wing and soothing the fraying edges of his nerves. It seems instinctively wrong for Dean to have so much sway on how he feels by merely thinking and contacting his wing, but for once, it was the type of wrong that Castiel could adapt to. It's not something that could be forced, the _calm_ coming from the hunter is more of a warm suggestion than an order. It's the complete opposite from commanding, and it wouldn't do a damn thing if the angel didn't let it; but something about the warmth and concern that surrounds the action floods him completely and his ravaged Grace practically melts against it. He will worry about being disgruntled about it later.

The younger Winchester was turned around in the front, glancing at them worriedly. “You guys all right?”

Dean nods, managing a half stretch in the cramped space wedged between the window and angel curled on the set, rubbing a hand over his bruised jaw with a scowl. For something so fucked up, that wing of his is like folded steel. “Yeah. I'll buy you a beer if you get us there in less than two, though.” Castiel doesn't say anything.

Eyeing up the ashen looking angel carefully, watching as his eyes closed and the shivering continued with his panting. “Sure, Dean.” He agrees somewhat uneasily, turning back around and pulling back out onto the empty highway. The sooner they get to Bobby's the better, they were all tired and constant pressure was wearing them all ragged.

–

“Balls.” Is the first thing out of Bobby's mouth as the exhausted foursome finally crawl wearily out of the Impala and up to his porch. Bobby Singer is many things, but elegant is not one of them.

It's evening by now, warm sun low in the sky but sunset not due for at least another hour. The salvage yard is slowly turning deep oranges and reds, but even that does nothing for the ashen complexion of the grantedly tan-resistant angel of the Lord propped up between the two Winchester brothers.

Dean can't help but agree with Bobby's sentiment as the gruff old hunter ushers the foursome indoors. It's been one hell of a long trip. Usually there's nothing more relaxing than a road trip in the Impala, but the constant possibility of an angel or two showing up, Castiel getting worse, and Sam getting too tired to carry on driving for much longer, had made this one for the stressful record books.

At least they're finally here; Dean can't believe this whole thing started less than a day ago, what a damn disaster.

They drag the angel upstairs to the spare bedroom. Castiel's fever was worse than it'd been before they left the _Flamingo_ and the last hour in the Impala had been a freezing one for the Winchesters and Uzziel; but that damn temperature had just crept up and up and nothing seemed to stop it. If the guy was a human he'd be friggin' brain dead that's for damn sure.

It doesn't take long to get the angel settled, there's only a small double in Bobby's spare room, but Dean doesn't think stretching his wings is going to be high on the list of things Castiel wants to do when he finally wakes up again, so he doesn't particularly think it's going to be much of a problem. The brothers steal a rotating fan from the library and prop every second floor window open in the hope it'll cool the angel down. It's a damn shame that this went down in July rather than in January, it's not exactly cool outside. If his damn wings weren't so freakin' huge they'd stick the poor bastard in an ice bath. As it is, the angel is panting, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, looking ashen and sickly underneath ice packs covering his pressure points. Everything about it rubs Dean entirely the wrong way. This was never supposed to happen, not to an Angel, not to Cas. It's not fair and the hunter seethes at the thought of Zephon's stupidly proud grin.

Dean was ringing out a towel soaked with cold water, wrapping it around some ice that Bobby had in the freezer and finally packing that big-ass bruise when the gruff hunter speaks up from the doorway. There was rough concern in his eyes as he took in the huge bandage swaddled wing half curled on the bed. It's actually the first time Bobby's even seen them Dean realises absently, no wonder he looks so damn wary. You get used to Castiel's _otherness_ when he's flapping in on you nearly daily for a few years, but having it shoved in your face like this when you've not had that adjustment period must be kinda mind-boggling, Dean supposes.

“Well don't he look like a ray of sunshine. What the hell happened to 'im? You boys weren't exactly generous with the details on the phone.”

The younger hunter sighs tiredly, hoping to hell Sam would hurry up getting some food. He's damn starving for a burger. “The mansion was like something out of _Last House on Dead End Street_ , Bobby. Hell, we still don't know what actually happened to the Wicoms in the first place that turned all three into spirits.” He growls it out harshly, the grim look of delight on that little boy's face isn't something the hunter will forget for a while. He soaks another smaller towel. “We were doing fine 'till this freakin' angel uses 'em to throw god damn angel blade hooks at Cas. You should've seen it, man. Cas practically tore the place apart.”

Bobby raises an eyebrow under his hat at the way Dean narrows his eyes at the damaged wing. He knows that look. “Then what?”

Dean sighs again, palming his eyes slowly and eagerly taking the beer that Bobby offers out like a peace-offering. “He was pretty out of it, I went towards him and he freaked out, got pinned under some fuck-off heavy metal staircase.” The hunter curled his hands into fists to stop the shaking there. “Christ, there was so much blood, Bobby.”

The older hunter was silent for a moment, eyeing the Winchester from a safe distance. Dean was a ball of simmering tension and it wasn't always clear which direction he would snap in if prodded at like this before he has a chance to cool down. The Winchester has a lot of faults, Bobby doesn't know a hunter that doesn't, but his ability to take on guilt for absolutely anything is his biggest one. Just as his protectiveness over his perceived family is his greatest strength, but in times like this, the two conflict dangerously with each other. Keeping his silence about Castiel for the moment, Bobby changes his direction of attack. “What about the other angel?”

It was damn scary how quickly the Winchester's eyes cloud over with something instinctual and blood-thirsty. _“Zephon._ Fucking creep was whacked out seven ways from Sunday. I mean, the dude tried to kill Sammy just for being alive. Cas managed to hold him in place long enough for me to gank the bitch. Called himself a “Power” or whatever, I dunno; what Cas used to be before his upgrade.” The dark look in his eyes lessons again and the hunter turns to glance at the Scottie curled in what is becoming her default place against the Seraph's chest.

There's a story in that look. Bobby knows how much Dean's against taking the dog with him, but Dean's a stubborn ass and will deflect if he asks; and Bobby knows better than to keep poking at a wrangled Dean Winchester's sore buttons. He'll get it out of Sam, kid was easier to pry open. “Well, the place is warded against damn near everything I ever heard of. You boys are staying 'till Cas is back to being a brick wall again, right?” It's not a question. More of a threat; a _don't you dare leave this house 'till you look less like you're gonna keel over._

Dean snorts. “Yeah, sorry Bobby. We're here for the week at least.”

Well that settles it then. “Good, I got some work on the roof you idiots can help me with later, after Feathers is flappin' around again.”

The younger hunter rolls his eyes, Bobby always has a list of chores that needed to be done, both of the brother's are sure it's pushing a mile long. The old house needs some fixing up desperately and the older hunter is always getting them to finish a chore or two between hunts. The domesticity is damn near sickening, and oddly, the older Winchester craves it when the stress of the jobs gets too much. Because this, bar the Impala, was the closest place the Winchester brothers have ever had to a true home. They grumble and whine about the work, slacking off and annoying each other as they go, Bobby will snap and bark orders back and bluffingly refuse to make actual home cooked meals until the work's done. And despite it all, every damn one of them secretly enjoys it.

–

It takes a full day and a half for Castiel to get over the fever; and by the end of that first night Dean had been taut as a stretched bow string. Cas'd been well and truly sick. His temperature was so hot his skin was scalding to the touch and no matter how much ice Sam brought up, it would not go back down. He'd been plastered with sweat, curled into a tight ball of abject misery beneath ruffled wings, hair matted down and eyes scrunched shut.

Sam had been glum, stalking up and down the stairs all day. Flicking between researching with Bobby about the curse on the angel's wings, Heavens' weapons, and damaged angel Grace; and bringing ice and food up to his older brother to check on their crippled, weakening angel. Bobby had been edgy down stairs, he was worried, but he knew as well as Sam that if they tried to peel Dean away from the spare room the older Winchester would have the mother of all fits. Dean was in raging protective older Winchester mode, even though the Seraph was thousands and thousands of years older than him.

All in all the atmosphere was terrible. The house near silent outside of that room, Sam had been more optimistic that Castiel would be fine once his wing was stitched back together. But he hadn't counted on the aftershocks of shredded Grace occurring for so long afterwards. None of them had. And at one point, it'd looked damn possible that they might not have an angel come morning at all.

Dean had been a man shaped ball of exhausted stress. They needed Castiel. Not just for the stupid war in Heaven. Dean needed Cas. The angel was some thing the hunter had never knew he wanted around until the stubborn creature had pulled him out of Hell. The angel has his flaws, sure. He was an _asshole_ when it came to matters of Heaven, flapping out on them with barely any warning, glaring at Dean at any form of blasphemy. And that has nothing on that stubborn stick rammed up the angel's ass, and don't even get the hunter started on the soul staring and personal space issues.

But Castiel's a part of their messed up little team. He's a walking wall of social retardation true, and Dean has to spend half of his time trying to introduce the angel to the necessities of Earth's culture, (because who hasn't seen the original Batman movies for Christ's sake). He's adorably clueless to all things sinful, and nothing cheers up Dean more than taking him to bars, dropping him in at the deep end, and watching him try and get a grip on the situation and failing miserably. Cruel? sure. Hilarious? Definitely.

There's just something about the angel that has Dean relax. Sam was his brother, and if Dean was ever forced to pick between Sam and Castiel, the answer would _always_ be Sam. But that doesn't mean the hunter can just deal with the loss of the damn Seraph either. Castiel's an important detachment for Dean, the Winchester could tell him things that he couldn't tell Sam; concerns about his brother, uncertainties about their future with the supernatural, without the worry of being rebuffed. It's not in Castiel's nature to reject or judge the hunter's ruminations, even the unfounded ones, and though he'll glare unhappily about it, he won't tell Sam something if Dean asks him desperately enough. The hunter relies on Castiel just to care, for someone else to keep an eye out for Sam in ways that Dean physically can't, to give him advice more unbiased than his brother's, and to beat the crap out of Dean when he does something stupid and reckless.

And for all that Dean's insulted the angel for being ignorant or innocently guileless, a time will come when Castiel will suddenly do something that reminds Dean instantly that the angel isn't naïve at all. He isn't clueless, or too involved with his human charges as the rest of his kin seemed to believe. Castiel is an unusual mix of kick-ass warrior and pure pacifist, and if he really wanted to, he could level a city. It reminds the hunter more than once of a time Castiel _had_ been prepared to destroy a town, and had then been grateful to the hunter that he hadn't had to. Because, all the angel really wants to do with his time, is watch. He doesn't want to fight his brothers, he doesn't want power over the Heavenly Host, he doesn't want the “paradise” that comes with an apocalypse. He just wants to watch the world carry on it's little clueless way, and make sure the Winchesters are safe.

And that's got nothing on that crazy possessive streak he's got going on. Dean knows he's bad for it himself, but this is something even Dean can't compare against. Castiel may claim not to perch on the Winchesters' shoulders, but God help the poor bastards that are threatening them when Castiel shows up. Because there's a terrifying difference between that wiser, gentle Winchester friend, Cas, and the Warrior of God that is Castiel; a thunderstorm wrapped in a paper-thin human suit. Something so endlessly powerful he's capable of killing the brothers with little more than a thought; yet he's perfectly happy just to stand there and watch them squabble. And how weird is it that the Winchesters take that as normal? Their lives are a speck to a Heavenly Messenger, a blink in the life span of an angel. All of that freedom in the Universe that Castiel can fly off to, and he chooses to come back to an old '67 Chevy Impala and the two Winchesters that call her home.

That's even with all the crap Dean will put the angel through. The older Winchester knows he's no saint. He's got a soul so screwed up that on a deeply subconscious level he hadn't wanted to leave Hell. He'll snap and shout and pick at the angel's patience like a sharpened blade and Dean is so damn grateful that the angel just sits there and takes it. Hell, how many times has the angel got himself injured for the Winchesters sake? The guy fell from Heaven, died twice, for them. He got Sammy out of The Cage, _by_ _him-fucking-self,_ because Dean needed his little brother even more than he needed Castiel and the angel understood why. How the hell had they left it until the angel was ripped a part by hooks to tell him he was a damn Winchester himself? The evidence has been blazing in their faces for months now.

So, Dean sat there all night. Fighting off much needed sleep because for the first time, Castiel needed the hunter just as much as Dean relied on him. He'd kill anybody who ever brought it up in future for the reason that; just because Dean knows he needs the asshole, doesn't mean anybody else needs to know it, too.

And in the worst moment, when the hunter sits there seriously debating how likely they are to keep their angel through the night, he throws in the towel. Dean Winchester's not the praying man his younger brother is, but there're times that the hunter doesn't have much else to do. “C'mon, Cas... You pull your feathery ass through this, you can keep the damn puppy, no complaints from me, man.”

–

To Dean, it seemed as if the asshole had waited for that confession before he starts getting better. The fever breaks the second day, temperature creeping back down into the human survival range and finally into the relatively normal range. It wasn't like Dean had taken much notice of what the angel's skin temperature usually was when his body wasn't trying to roast itself from the inside out.

Afterwards, the bruise on his back seemed to start healing faster, the deep purple lightening to a grim looking blotchy green, the swelling helped by all the ice. The slim long cut that had been hidden by his hairline was turning into more of a puckered red line and the small nicks and scrapes up and down his arms and shoulders were doing the same.

The shivering stopped some time ago, the Seraph was finally curled back under a comforter without the worry he'd cook through it; and now that Dean was more convinced that his friend would be back to his usual socially stunted self in a few days, the image of a “terrifying angelic warrior” curled around a tiny Scottie puppy under a huge fluffy comforter was too good to pass up without snapping a photo on his phone. Because, no. Dean isn't above blackmailing an angel. There's nothing more satisfying than knowing that in the middle of the night, no matter where you are, you can send up a threatening message to an angel and have a freshly baked pie delivered a few moments later.

Sam sometimes bitches at him for it, and sometimes the pie will show up without any blackmailing altogether; occasionally accompanied by whatever book the younger Winchester had mentioned wanting to read.

–

The hunter is asleep in the creaky ass wooden chair in the late afternoon sun pouring in through the window, when a soft grumble drags him back into awareness with a jolt. He nearly falls off of the god damn thing, but he's not really as mad as he should be when he realises why.

The angel had only woken once over the whole two days; it was before the fever had broken and Dean doesn't even really count it. The Seraph had weakly grappled his eyes half open, but he'd barely responded to the hunter's strained callings, staring blankly passed him and shivering harder against the mattress through the pain and fog of the inflamed damage and loss of so much Grace.

This time is different. The angel winces heavily under the brown comforter, Uzziel whining unhappily her own dissatisfaction at being woken, and finally the groaning angel pries his eyes open sleepily. The blue gaze is _sharp_ again, despite the weariness there, and Dean could damn well cheer he's so happy to see the return of the soul staring.

He still looks like crap, mussed hair (no one does bed head like Cas), bruises and nicks dusting his skin, all deep bags and bandages and tangled black feathers. But he has colour back in his skin and no shimmering Grace in sight.

“...Dean?” Castiel's muggy voice is rubbed raw, and Dean hands him a bottle of water from the bedside table absently as the Seraph tries to pry himself away from the mattress. The hunter can tell he's confused and light-headed; the look in his eyes is vaguely hilarious because it doesn't seem like Castiel understands that he's dizzy and keeps shaking his head gently to stop it. Which naturally, makes it worse.

The wing looks like it still hurts like a bitch. It takes some serious effort, but Castiel awkwardly eases himself to sit more upright, bracing himself up with his right elbow, the injured wing slack from his shoulder and across the mattress, wincing at every single muscle twitch. “ 'Bout damn time, Cas. You got a real bad habit of passing out for days on end and scaring the crap outta us.”

The angel looks tiredly at him as if he wants to glare but can't find the energy left to do so. Hesitantly, he sips the water, the cool liquid quenching the fire in his throat. “We're at Bobby Singer's house?” He asks gruffly, it's more of a question of _“what happened?_ ” if Dean ever heard one.

The hunter doesn't like the way his hand shakes as the Seraph drains the bottle, before he starts picking at the bandages swaddled around his waist. “Dude, stop that. We got here like two days ago, you don't remember the drive up here?”

Castiel frowns, lines pulling deeply around his eyes, his shoulders are hunched as he glances sideways to his right wing and grimaces as he stretches the shaking limb as far as he can in the confining room. The joints pop noisily at having been curled and motionless for so long before he rests it back against the mattress. “My memory, is...vague. I remember the house, and watching television with you in the motel.” He narrows his eyes in thought, absently rubbing his forehead with his free hand as if fighting off a headache, being careful not to jostle his throbbing shoulder too much. “The drive is, not so clear. I don't remember arriving here at all.” He glances up at Dean curiously, the hunter doesn't like the vague suspicion being aimed his way. “Though, I recall you giving me leave to keep Uzziel.”

The hunter glares at the angel, growling darkly as he jabs a pointed finger in the angel's face. “You spend the last two days out-freakin'-cold feelin' like the surface of the damn sun! And _that's_ what you remember! Damn it, Cas!” He folds his arms roughly over his chest and leans back in his seat, punching him will be counter productive and he has to settle for scowling at the angel moodily. There's _no way in hell_ Dean's relieved, no freaking way.

Castiel tilts his head and gives a tired half-smile at the petulant look being aimed his way, then shakes his head gently, wincing deeply as he tries to sit up straighter, unwilling to be bed-ridden now he's finally awake.

Dean sighs laboriously, as if what he was watching was the most taxing thing in existence and feels personally offended by it. He was hoping he had another day before the asshole started pushing limits. “Lay down, Cas. You'll probably pass out if you move too much.” His tone is half exasperated, half teasing. After all, Dean's just spent the last two days watching the asshole, there's only so much more touchy-feely crap he will take for the rest of his life fuck you very much.

The Seraph glares at him despite his supporting arm trembling a little bit, God it's a beautiful thing to see. “I am an angel, Dean. I don't need to sleep.” That said, he tries to beat the pain from his face and snap his expression back into stoic _angel of The Lord,_ curling his wings towards him. The angel grits his teeth at the stabbing aches that greet the action, the shock of it's intensity sending Jimmy's heart pounding and his head suddenly feels like it can't tell which way up the room was facing; their surroundings dance erratically around the angel until he miserably curls back down against the mattress with a soft, exhausted groan. “...Maybe, I will just... lay here for a while, though.” He concedes wearily, Uzziel whuffing in approval and snuggling back down and nosing at his chin.

Dean laughs at the concession. “Yeah, you do that.” The white streaks of fabric are a stark contrast to the oily ebony of the angel's mussed feathers, and the fine trembling of the wing has Dean sobering quickly. “Hey, Cas? Can you tell if your wing's good? I mean, we stitched you up as much as we could. But we didn't really know what the hell to do.” Not something the angel probably wanted to hear, now that Dean thinks about it.

Castiel hums gently, pulling the comforter back up and glaring when the human sends him a dry, smug smirk. “My Grace is damaged, but... my wing is healing.” He furrows his brow in concentration as he spreads his Grace along the damaged limb, poking at each small stitch and feeling for the damage done further in. The Grace isn't something that Dean can heal, but the physical treatment to his wing was enough to help him stabilise his shattering light. It saved his life. He draws back in surprise, the two competing planes meshing almost seamlessly. The hunter shifts uneasily when the angel's wide eyes glance curiously back to the Winchester. “It hold hope it'll heal. I... Thank you, Dean.”

The Winchester rubs a hand across the back of his neck, staring at the mattress instead meeting that stupid gratitude head on. “Nah, Cas, it was nothing.” Besides, if Dean had listened to the angel in the first place, this never would have happened to begin with. Nothing says best-friend like getting their Grace flayed.

“Dean” Castiel snaps, glaring at the hunter's nonchalance. The human was always annoying when it came to accepting something other than crushing guilt. “I was _dying_.” His tone softens when Dean glances back to him in surprise. “I should have stopped you going in, I should have known better. Don't belittle me by pretending I'm not capable of being at fault for my own choices.” He pauses with the reluctance on the hunter's face, the angel sighs tiredly. He doesn't have the strength to argue about this. “No human has ever touched my wings before... You and Sam saved my life.”

It feels as if Dean is trying to swallow around jagged boulders that have taken up permanent residence in his throat. Plastering on what he hopes is a less flustered, cocky smile, he glances at Uzi. His knee jerk reaction is to shoot out a cut off about how damn girly that sounded but his throat has closed around the words and trapped them as tightly as the weary blue eyes staring at him have. True to fashion, Sam chooses that exact moment to walk in sporting two beers and hands one to Dean, smiling reassuringly at Castiel. “What my emotionally crippled brother means, Cas. Is “You're welcome.” ”

Dean bristles, kicking his feet up onto the bed and sulkily popping the cap from his bottle. He sends the stalkerish younger Winchester a sullen look. “Bitch.”

“Jerk.” Sam snorts smugly, catching the tired, fond smile the angel was watching them with out of the corner of his eyes, Sam gave him a warm one in response. The younger Winchester often had a habit of feeling a little excluded whenever the Seraph dropped in the room, but for once, the younger Winchester gets the impression the gratitude in those old blue eyes is definitely aimed at both of them. For a couple of minutes at least, the fact that Armageddon is back on the table doesn't seem like such an impending problem.

–

Castiel's immediate recovery comes like the first steps of a newborn fawn.

Dean stalking around the room like an agitated hind, trying to coax, and then irritate, and then black mail the angel into doing things he clearly doesn't want to. First up, when Dean's limited sympathy supply had been highest; was getting the pain in the ass to swallow fruit juice. Because as fast as the superficial scratches on his vessel seemed to heal, the major damage wasn't doing so well and blood loss was something that Castiel apparently wasn't all that great at bouncing back from.

Hence, all of the juice.

The Seraph had fallen back to sleep not long after Sam came in the room, and the next time he woke up several hours later, he was still miserably weak and light-headed. Feeling more than a little ill at just the action of sitting vaguely upright, Castiel sat there and glared at the persisting human until Dean's sympathy began to simmer down to resignation and he threatened to hold the idiot down and pour it down his damn, holier-than-thou, throat.

The angel had narrowed his tired eyes into a challenging _I'd like to see you try._

Dean was just getting out of his chair, meaningfully gripping the glass in a menacing fashion, when Castiel dissolved into a coughing fit. It wasn't particularly long, but the involuntary, not to mention, excruciatingly painful, movements startled the angel and he immediately drank the orange juice pushed into his hand with Dean's light encouragement that it would help.

It did. The coughing eased. Castiel seemed half startled, half wary; the actions exhausted his measly amount of strength and Dean's irritated resignation bloomed back into hidden sympathy as the idiot almost immediately passed out again. At least the bastard stopped refusing to drink the damn stuff, especially because he actually _really_ liked it.

It just seemed that every time he got his recovery legs under him, he'd stumble again.

It didn't help that even by the next morning, Castiel still didn't want to move. The trap had been four days ago, the nicks dusting his skin had pretty much healed, leaving a few thin red marks up and down his frame, mostly hidden by the comforter he refused to relinquish. The bruise on his back was a sickly yellow with darker splotches of greens and faint reds the further right across his back it spread, but it was still healing much faster than Dean had thought it might.

His wings were a different story. The right wing hadn't been shredded to ribbons like the left one had, but the angel cringes enough when moving and trying to stretch it that Dean thinks the muscles are probably badly bruised along the inside of the top line. The left is just a mess, and the more Dean becomes impatient for Castiel to recover, the more he also realises the extent to the damage to Castiel himself inside of the vessel; and the clearer this becomes, the more the hunter swallows his worry driven complaints. Cas needed the constant rest, there wasn't a pain killer in the whole house that had had any impact, the morphine barely taking the tip off, and the angel had to just sit there and bare it.

It's infuriating for the older hunter because there isn't anything else he can do other than push Castiel's recovery. Sam and Bobby have spent all of their time researching through any texts they could get their hands on. Searching for anything from angelic injuries to wing curses to Heavenly weapons, and so far they haven't found much. Dean could help, but Sam and Bobby have a complicated nerdy ass note system going and Dean wasn't stupid, but he's not a natural book worm like the rest of his oddball family is, and he's convinced they could do it faster without him. Though that's not to say he hasn't been skimming through a book or two looking for leads and newspapers to search for angelic movements either.

Despite not wanting to move at all, Castiel is not a fond fan of sleep. He finds it immensely unsettling to be utterly vulnerable in such a state of unconsciousness for so long, even more so because he tends to feel so groggy and uncoordinated whenever he wakes back up. It got to the point where the angel struggled to stay awake almost the whole night, hoping that his Grace had recovered enough to offset his vessels desperate pleas for sleep. The internal struggle left him drained, dizzy and ill; and in the end, he'd gone down anyway.

Even Uzziel seemed fed up with being stuck in bed all day with her weakened owner. The puppy had taking to nudging the angel's chin in a constant attempt to get him to play with her. She only left his side a couple times a day and even though she always came back, it was clear she was bored. Sam took her to get her slightly overdue booster shot. Then suddenly Dean had two pained, exhausted, Grace powered creatures to deal with.

Sam had had to retreat pretty damn quickly after that. Castiel's defensive glare had followed him out of the room as an unvoiced threat of violence.

Dean isn't a damn nurse maid, he doesn't spend all of his time in the spare room with them. Usually breaking out to treat the Impala to some TLC whenever the angel falls asleep again, (which usually happened less than an hour from whenever he wakes up, his stamina is all shot to hell), or finding out what Bobby and Sam have dug up in their research, which more often than not, is painfully little.

The news of the violent thunderstorm in Hugoton that had broken out a little while after the boys had left the _Flamingo_ had Sam and Dean shooting each other a hesitantly relieved look. That was just too close for Dean's liking. So far, Sam's plan to throw off the angels trail for Castiel seems to be working perfectly, and the house has enough wardings that it'll be one big blank spot to the angels' senses. But none of the hunters believe that it'll last for long, the angels will find out Castiel had survived at some point, and with the Winchester luck it would be much sooner rather than later.

Despite the ever looming threat of discovery, changing Castiel's bandages had also been an educational experience. The wounds on his shoulder and side were closing slower than the other small cuts littering his body, but they'd had made better progress than any wound Dean had ever had. It's damn relieving, that hole in his shoulder had been fucking deep. Castiel himself had told the hunter the pain from it was a strange mixture of aching and faint; the slash to his Grace from the injuries throbbed constantly, but the physical damage to Jimmy's body was a strange there, but not there type of pain. It only hurt when Castiel thinks about it specifically, and that seemed to confuse him for a good long while. The older Winchesters spent quite a while debating with him the comparison to times he'd get all cut up on hunts and not feel the pain until he actually noticed the wound.

Changing the bandages on his wing is a pain in the ass, because though still weak; the Seraph's strength was returning again, and the wings were damn hard for the angel to keep still as Dean pulled the uncomfortable fabric away that was jammed between his feathers. Dean didn't need to hear the Seraph's low rumbles of pain to know that moving his wing was agonising; the muscles and ligaments were shredded and twisted badly and the angel was becoming more and more despondent with every time Dean came up to look at them.

At first, the hunter was a little thrown by the sheer anxiety in the angel's eye, then it clicked that the Seraph had damn good reason to look so despondent. To say the wing was damaged was a laughable understatement, and he has no real guarantee that the left one will fully heal again properly. The angel was indefinitely grateful for the hunter's care, but like Dean had said, they weren't what the Seraph needed. Castiel had been effectively crippled; a supernatural creature trapped on the ground when he was built for the air. And the more days that passed, the worse it became, and the more Dean tried to help push his recovery.

-

It takes another full week for Castiel to find the strength and will power to get out of the spare room.  
The Seraph had groggily woken up in the sun lit guest bedroom, the shafts of light passing through the muntins of the windows and falling across the bed and the small black puppy that was curled in the warm rays.

Not at all happy to be awake again, (he'd noticed a while ago he tended to heal faster when sleeping), he half-heartedly drags himself to sit upright. His left wing protesting sharply, the abused muscles throbbing in malcontent as it limply slid across the mattress. The butterfly bandages that had been applied to the two smaller gashes of his wing had been left off after yesterdays bandage change. It had been seven days since arriving and the wounds had healed enough that him and Dean thought they could go without.

The ache that had accompanied the two wounds had dulled over the days, and it was with relief that Castiel realises that he can at least stretch the humerus of his wing with only a little pain. The two, much larger wounds were still unbearably painful to stretch too much and the angel keeps the wing as loosely folded as much as he can as he pulls himself to sit up. The idea of sleep is still unappealing for him despite it's benefits, but he has to admit that the novel feeling of lying down in a state of comfort to heal was not a bad one, he much enjoys being able to curl around Uzziel's warmth and lay still in the quiet and peaceful room. It's not exactly an angelic thing to do, but it's something he finds enjoyable nonetheless.

Glancing around the cluttered, dust ridden room, he notices a distinct lack of Dean Winchester and sets about sliding over to the edge of the mattress. As much as the Seraph enjoys the hunter's company, he's beginning to understand Sam's exasperation of Dean's “brother bear” mode. It's instinctively wrong on all sorts of levels for an angel to be molly-coddled, however roughly, by a human; and though he's grateful for the stubborn hunter's care, Castiel is still an angel. He shouldn't have to rely on the humans, and he most certainly should not be wallowing around as if the war in Heaven was no longer claiming lives. He had weapons to find and he has to find them now. Raphael will be moving if he thinks Castiel's dead and he needs to be ready.

Gritting his teeth at the pain of his wings, he's grateful Dean's not in the room. The hunter would surely try and stop him from leaving the room, probably using a colourful array of selected words from his rather extensive vocabulary as he does so. Not knowing how long he has before Dean comes back, the angel braces himself against the wooden chair the hunter had placed beside the bed, takes a moment to breathe, before pushing himself to his feet.

His wing protests harshly, the weight of his feathers pulling against the injuries now that gravity was against him again. He is an angel, he will endure it. The sharp pain eases into an uncomfortable and constant throb after a few moments breathing through the shock, and the weakened Seraph tries to concentrate more on the curious sensation of carpet underneath his bare feet than the unpleasant sensations of his wing. He's never been barefoot before, and he curiously wiggles his toes against the worn fabric and decides he like the feeling more than the constriction of Jimmy's dress shoes.

Taking stock, he notes he feels better than he thought he might. Dean shoving orange juice and cookies down his throat at every single opportunity seems to have paid off, and he feels a little bit more apologetic that he's been so inconvenient with Dean's less than patient pushing. Still, his strength is nothing like what it should be; there's a lingering sense of exhaustion clinging to his limbs, an ache deep in his chest and Grace that warns Castiel pushing himself too hard, too soon will end very badly for him. But, he figures helping the hunters with their research can't be too much of a strain.

He's done with being a burden on them. He's supposed to be their protector, not the other way around. He's pulled both of the brothers out of _Hell_ with his bare hands, outmanoeuvred the two most powerful archangels Heaven has, he will not be kept down by _Raphael's_ failed assassination attempt. The fury that comes with the thought of his name powers the Seraph as he unsteadily leaves the room, Uzziel trailing hot on his heels.

He's got work to do.

–


	11. Bad News Is Like Bad Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad News Is Like Bad Coffee; Bitter and awful, but it still wakes you up.

Powers are notoriously stubborn creatures.

All angelic warriors are not to be taken lightly in their determination to see something through, and Castiel has been been told by one or two of his once closer siblings at varying times of his life that he has some what of a stronger than normal stubbornness issue. The angel had kept this drive even with his transition to one of the Seraphim, and he's grateful for that at least; it encourages him to keep going through the threatening lethargy of injuries and work harder to recover his strength.

But there's only so much mental strength can do.

The physical wounds marring his once sleek wing were healing painfully slowly; but by the end of the second week, they were no longer the crippling distraction they once had been. It gives him the breathing space to tentatively try stretching the wing, carefully rebuilding his strained range of movement and regain some of the strength that'd been lost from the limb from lack of use.

Grace is a more troublesome thing to recuperate. It's been seeping back, bit by bit, strengthening the angel's supernatural stamina, but even so, the potency of the celestial blaze is distressingly poor. For something once so powerful, Castiel is very much hyper aware of how weak he has become; how vulnerable he is to attack.

He has just enough to play around with the way visible light can be made to bend around his wings to shield them from sight. And, after a rather unfortunate comment from Dean about Castiel parking his “ _fucking Invisible Ass Jet”_ , the flash of power through his veins in peeved response had him thinking that he probably had the power to “Zap” small distances.

Sam gave him an encouraging smile at the time, but the angel isn't exactly oozing confidence. His Grace may be returning, but right now, there's no way that he's capable of smiting a demon; and the first time he'd tried to move anything telekinetic-ally two days ago had made him dizzy, gifting him with a nose bleed for his straining efforts.

His physical strength is fiercely lacking too and he's somewhat glad that they haven't gone out searching for something new to hunt down in the usual Winchester way. He needs more time before he thinks he could confidently protect them all in battle again, and with Raphael on the prowl, Castiel barely likes letting them leave the house. The constant threat of the angels finding out about his survival is hanging over them, the three hunters are fodder to the celestial force on a mission above them, and the constant strain has Castiel pushing his limits to try and regain his strength. Short flight is useful, but it's not enough.

His injuries burn abominably when subjected to the pressures of movement, but it's nothing he can't force himself through. You don't survive to ventures to Hell by falling to injuries anything short of amputation. The gashes have almost sealed shut and the range of motion he has now _is_ better than it had been, but the hunters keep interfering with his routine, exasperated that he refuses to listen to his vessel's demands that he take it easy.

Castiel doesn't have time to take it easy. It's bad enough that he can't avoid the late night crashes into sleep; the week has not good for encouraging news.

The first time that Castiel had stumbled down into the library had thrown Dean headlong into having a mild fit. He spent a good five minutes yelling out insults that were physically impossible in almost every sense, before the angel gratefully, though he ensured to keep his expression passive, dropped down into Sam's vacated place on the couch. Grumbling that the angel was trying to kill himself after all of Dean's hard work and other such dramatics that both slightly irritated and amused the Seraph, the hunter had finally calmed a small amount. Bobby had rolled his eyes and barked at both of them to suck it up and help with the research. Sam was suspiciously quiet after he resettled on the other end of the couch, hiding his face behind an old tome.

The first major piece of bad news was that Sam and Bobby had finally drawn the conclusion that the curse on Castiel's wings had no break that they could find written down in any of their sources. Which, considering the vast quantity of Bobby's tomes, was far from encouraging. If there was a break to it, it's beyond their skill to track down, and Castiel simply doesn't have the strength left to fly off researching across the other side of the world.

The second blow comes from angel-radio itself. The angels _all_ believe Castiel dead, and his army had lost quite a lot of it's members over the few days that Castiel had spent almost entirely unconscious. Raphael had taken the opportunity to barricade himself away somewhere, no one could find anything out about It, and rumours were spreading of under cover dealings occurring between some angels and other supernatural forces. Rachel was rallying as best as she could, but the lack of solid information and lull in the fighting was making it hard to discern truth from rumour. It's far from promising to hear.

The murderous archangel is biding his strength to break the cage. It's clear as day to the Seraph. But there's no way he could manage it by himself; the cage was built to keep archangels in, and other archangels out, and the further angel-radio messages reported that some of Raphael's forces had been spotted across the globe as if searching for something. Which had only solidified this belief.

They're running out of time and Castiel's becoming more and more desperate.

Bobby only confirmed the Seraph's fears when he and Sam displayed the freak weather patterns that had broken out in random places across the globe, several of them matching the reports he had heard directly. It's an uneasy prospect, what could the archangel possibly be searching for? The sixty six seals can no longer be broken without the Righteous Man in Hell or Lilith to break the last seal, so there must be something else that Raphael knows of that can do it; unless he's simply still looking for information about whether such a weapon or device exists. Castiel hopes that's the truth.

Whatever the reason for the war's sudden hiatus, it's putting the Seraph on edge. It's like knowing there is an explosive device in the house, but not knowing whether or not it will go off, or how long they have left to find out. The Seraph hasn't had a very long time to familiarise himself with human emotions. But this dread is not one he is enjoying.

The lack of contact to the outside world beyond the limits of the safely warded house eats at the Seraph''s instincts. He is a creature of strategy, as well as strength. He prefers to know his enemy's movements and the relevant actions he can then take to counter act what ever has been planned. But he's in no fit state to be in an angelic fight or find such information out, it's grating against his nerves. It leaves him on edge, snapping occasionally, and he spends a good deal of his time sitting on the back porch with Uzziel on his lap watching the sky. It's utterly pointless, it's not like Heaven is actually _up_ in the literal sense, but it's the best he can do to ease his mind. If he tries to reach out with the little Grace he has left there to sense Heaven's condition, there's a real chance someone would sense him back; that would not only put himself in danger, but also the hunters, and that's just an unacceptable risk.

The only one that seemed only mildly put off by the tense atmosphere was Uzziel. The puppy had grown a surprising amount since Castiel had first laid eyes on her back on that bridge. She was nearly twelve weeks old, eagerly running around the house on steadier feet now that Castiel's stronger and no longer restricted to the guest bedroom. She's generally well behaved, preferring to stay at the angel's side, or occasionally Dean's if the angel was stationary for too long; but she does have a few quirks that seem to inspire either amusement or ire in the hunters depending on her target. Gnawing Dean's boot laces, stealing Sam's socks and chewing all the lids of Bobby's pens being a few of the highlights of the week.

It's kind of hard for the puppy to menace her owner when he's padding barefoot around the house in only Dean's dark pair of sweats and bandages. His manifested wings and ruined suit haven't really made it possible to where his normal clothes for the last two and a half weeks. It's not a great problem for the angel, the large black wings curling closer if it grows colder in the late evenings; his Grace not yet strong enough to prevent the lack of warmth from affecting him.

Her usual form of attack had been to gnaw on his coats' belt tips, or mouth the large buttons on his sleeves. Without the clothing, because even Castiel had scolded the puppy for tugging his bandages, the terrier had to settle with simply nudging, and nudging, and nudging. It's a good thing the Seraph is an innately patient creature.

The older Winchester had surprised him a day after he'd finally made it out of the guest room, (much to his shame, the Seraph fell asleep on the couch less than three hours after coming down stairs and barely woke up for the rest of the day). Dean had grumbled, fidgeting on the spot like he always does when he's aggrieved to be telling the angel's something he doesn't feel comfortable saying. Staring hard at the floor, the hunter had shoved a bundled black T-shirt into the angel's hands, muttering an uneasy explanation under his breath. The fabric had two wide slits down the back, held in place with two black buttons near the hem line that were hard to spot if you didn't know they were there. When undone, the gaps made were more than large enough to slide his wings into without causing him any pain what so ever, and the slits were wider than the tears of his dress shirt so the skin beside where the wings emerged from his back avoided being rubbed sore like before.

Castiel had been thoroughly surprised by the odd gesture, the hunter growling that he couldn't keep wandering around half dressed like a freaking lunatic and that he was a moron for not fixing at least his trench coat to stop him _freezing to damn death 'cause you refuse to make any real use of that stupid rat by turning it into a jacket._ He hung around just long enough to do up the two buttons that the angel couldn't reach too easily around his wings with an injured shoulder, before the Winchester seemed to bolt from the room. Leaving a entirely puzzled, amused and overly fond Seraph standing in the kitchen.

But that had been several days ago by now.

The angel was currently reading one of Bobby's tomes, perched comfortably on the old couch; an Afghan blanket tucked over his feet and close to his side, his wings draping over the arm rest he's leaning against. His knees are drawn up to rest the book against, leaning against the back of the sofa; after a while ending up closer to lying down than sitting up right, but more than too cosy to move to a more refined angelic posture. Angels don't slouch, but Castiel hasn't spent much time over these last few weeks feeling all that angelic anyway, what's the harm in a little more.

The dusty, leather bound book is old by human standards; a couple centuries, written in an old, nearly forgotten form of Latin that the angel translates as easily as if he's reading English. There's not a great deal in it that could be of any real use, but he's always been a creature of knowledge and he's recently discovered that going through old tomes like this helps to ease his instinctual unease of the unknown Raphael situation. He wonders absently as he turns a crisp, yellowed page, if this is what the older Winchester feels when he works on the Impala to ease his troubled mind.

Dean calls it “nesting”. The Seraph would work seemingly without end during the day, stretching and power flapping his wings most of the mornings to rebuild the lost strength, researching through the texts that even Bobby has difficulty translating as if the languages haven't been dead for centuries most of the afternoon and evening; and finally, he'll pick a seemingly random old book from Bobby's immense collection, settle into the couch in a hollow of blankets and pillows, and slowly sink into the angelic equivalent of tired contentment. It's as bizarrely endearing to the humans as it is novel for the supernatural creature. Dean's never seen Castiel relax truly, and though this nesting wasn't what Dean would call _relaxed_ , it's the closest he's ever seen the angel get to it. Uzziel often claims the spot on top of the blanket covering his feet, snoring softly into the fabric and whining moodily when the Seraph moves to get up.

Bobby's tinkering around in the kitchen, the noises a comfortable backdrop to the warm room; it's an extremely odd sensation, being lulled into a false state of safety, tentatively letting his mind ignore the ever present risks and simply forgoing a little bit of awareness and trading it for vulnerability. The angel knows it's wrong to do so, an instinct warning that he should be ready for attacks at all times. But, his slow recovery and still weakened body have made falling into these states so much easier than before; and when in them, there's a strange lack of concern about the slight increase of vulnerability.

It shows through sometimes. It's rare the angel misses the hunters moving around him on even a supernatural sensory level, but with his little book breaks, the hunters often catch him by surprise.

In fact, this evening he doesn't notice Dean dropping into the empty space of the sofa until the cushions dip beneath his feet and the angel's lulled state breaks. “What's with that book?” The hunter questions. Some of his tired surprise must show on his face because the hunter grins smugly like he's won a point against the angel in a game he wasn't aware they're playing. “You've been reading it for like two hours, I've seen you flip through bigger books in minutes.”

Castiel pauses, glancing at the hunter thoughtfully over the top of the book, taking the offered glass of orange juice with a suppressed eye roll, but no verbal complaint. He's informed the Winchesters that he's no longer in any real danger of collapsing during strenuous activities due to all of the blood he'd lost, but once is apparently enough for them to cling too it regardless of the facts before them. Sometimes, an angel has to just let humans be humans. “I could read this book at such a speed if I wished.” He explains slowly, sipping his orange juice and idly feeling the texture of the old paper beneath his fingertips. “But I find it more enjoyable without the need to rush.”

The hunter rolls his eyes with an amused huff, eyeing the old tome like it might leap out of the Seraph's careful hold and bite him. “God, you and Sam should just open a damn book store already.”

The comment causes the Seraph to tilt his head in question. “Sam would probably find that quite agreeable.” He notes passively. The younger Winchester has a similar love of knowledge to Castiel, though he receives the impression that perhaps book selling maybe slightly too lacking in engagement for a life long occupation for the hunter. Castiel supposes that even he would struggle to fill the time after a few centuries. He craves peace and quiet often, but you can't take the warrior out of an angel, there would have to be a balance.

Dean's expression tightens for a moment, the hunter growing tense and drawing just slightly further away. Because damn, the hunter could see Sam working in a book shop or library or some other lame ass research place. Learning about weird ass things and having some place safe to go home to; work colleagues he could geek out with about the newest random book release without the concern of impending death from some supernatural bastard or another. Castiel too. It's easy for Dean to picture both of them talking over old tomes, like they so often do already, but without the hanging threat of failure looming over them. And man Dean wants that. Wants Sammy safe, the Winchesters belong together, but he can't deal with Sam dying again, he just can't.

If Sam would be safer, and happier, being a boring ass apple pie life book keeper, Dean would kill to give it to him. The angel may be just that, an _angel,_ but Cas and Sam are a lot alike in some ways, and if the angel had ever been born human, Dean can't think of a more fitting place for him than a library. A warm, quiet, peaceful sanctuary with endless books and no eternal life of wars. Hell, maybe he could have a stupid little garden on the side, Dean's always pegged the Seraph as one of those people.

Bobby could probably be the manager, supplier, guy that kept the whole train on the rails, what with his enormous network of tome connections. The whole thought almost makes the hunter smile, but it's bitter sweet at best, because it is an impossible scenario. This Winchester was born to die bloody. There's no room or place for Dean in that apple pie world.

Dean's silence draws Castiel's attention, and the sudden bleak, vacant _longing_ pouring from the human's soul has the angel subconsciously sit up straighter. Uzziel whines in annoyance between them, huffing at the hunter like she's aggravated Dean chose to mope so close to her. “I'm sure when this war is settled, both of you will have the chance to choose alternative paths, Dean. You and Sam, and Bobby, owe the world nothing more, you have already given more than your share.” The angel makes his voice firm, this self destructive path that Dean has set himself on has to be stopped. Castiel won't let the hunter's misguided self judgement get him killed.

The green of Dean's eyes blazes up to meet his own, vague surprise and bravado rising up in those iris'. This is not going to be an easy victory. “You say that like we have more than a snowballs chance, Cas. Chances are, we don't walk away from this.” The tone is off-handed, almost amused. It doesn't fool the angel. Castiel knows this soul from the inside out; if he was in a more strained mood, the Seraph would feel mildly insulted the hunter is attempting to treat him like a fool. Many emotions are recent discoveries to the Seraph. But Castiel is a fast learner.

But the flat tinge to the human's eyes makes the angel despair a little at how firmly Dean seems to believe what he's saying. And, though Castiel knows the hunter isn't _wrong_ in the basic sense, he knows that this isn't the mind set the hunter needs to have to see this through. It makes Castiel's Grace pine for a chance to take the Winchester's away from the situation. It's his fault that Dean, Sam and Bobby got dragged into this in the first place. He hadn't had enough time to think through what he should tell them when he'd first dragged himself to Bobby Singer's house after Raphael's attack, too dazed and tired and utterly _ashamed_ , to try and hold back. If things had been different, he may have kept it all to himself. He would have given the Winchester's the space to live their lives.

The three humans truly owe the world nothing. They shouldn't have to deal with Raphael's misplaced rage. Not after everything else they've already lost. His centres burns, the weak Grace boiling up heavily against his ribs with the simple desire to _reset_ everything. Castiel is not a Guardian angel. Not in the strict sense of Angelic Types. He's a Soldier; once a Power and the Captain of his Garrison, now one of the Seraphim and Missing In Action leader of a revolution. Not a trademark _Guardian._

But, literal points aside, he does consider himself their protector. He'll deny it if one of them calls him out on it, because while they are dear to him, Dean has a habit of abusing Castiel's powers a little too much for the Seraph's comfort. Guardian in Dean's mind seems to come with a clip on tag that suggests a he has to answer the human's demands and orders. And he does not. Reminding the hunter of the fact is easier if he denies his recently developed Guardian instincts. He is no one's weapon; he will never let himself be so manipulated ever again, especially by his friends, this small human family that have apparently adopted him into their ranks with this most recent near death experience.

Despite this fierce denial. Castiel has little hesitation in admitting to himself that he will tear Heaven and Hell apart to protect them as long as he is able too. If only he can get this hunter to simply understand. Dean Winchester is so much smarter than he will ever give himself credit for, but he can be so utterly blind to the truth. “I will give my life before I let any of you die, Dean.” He answers unwaveringly in the end, locking Dean's stare with his own, daring him to interfere or brush off his loyalty, demanding that he pay attention and see. The Seraph knows Dean still doesn't believe he deserves anyone's care, some damage runs too deep for a few petty words to heal, but Castiel is determined to force Dean to understand that; just because the human doesn't believe he deserves it, that doesn't mean he doesn't already have it entirely. Because, in Castiel's old eyes, no one deserves to have peace more than Dean Winchester.

This Seraph is stubborn without equal. Dean may brush this hidden plea for the hunter to see his self worth off this time. But there is no way that Castiel will give in, the angel will out last the human and he has no doubt about that. One day, the Seraph will succeed.

The human fidgets under the Seraph's powerful stare, blue eyes resolute and piercing, striking through Dean's ridiculous amount of mental defences. There must be a way to get Dean to realise how important he is, and this angel is intent.

The amount of bravado in those Green eyes wavers for a half-beat, a flash of something that the angel isn't fast enough to identify, before the familiar indomitable façade falls down into place like a physical, defensive wall to his soul.

_Damn._

The hunter's next words, though no doubt off-handed and demeaning his vessel's gender were lost in the sudden, uncontrollable _pain_ that erupts in the angel's skull. The sensation rips all of the borrowed breath from his vessel's lungs, the tortuous sensation crushing the air out in a startled choke as his hand snaps up to his forehead; pressing as if the pressure could lesson the knives carving his vessel from the inside out. It's absolutely unbearable, a blazing pain behind his eyes that just keeps getting worse and worse and worse and _worse_. It's utterly blinding, sheer agonising force building unendingly in his mind. The room tilts out of focus, colours blurring into one shade as his vision swims in a way that's hauntingly familiar to the inferno of his recently shed fever. The sheer abruptness of the attack knocks him completely off guard. His chest burns hotly, the scalding rage roaring in his head swallowing every other conscious thought and no matter how much he tries to swallow back panic, he can't fight his way through drawing a breath. The mesh of dizzying vertigo darkens at the edges, his lungs feel like they're cramping up behind his ribs. He wonders distantly if this is what it feels like to drown.

Vaguely, on the edge of what little supernatural consciousness he as left, he thinks there's shouting, thumps of hurried footsteps and a high pitched howl that seems much to clear and very far away all at once. There are odd touches of pressure, gentle and coaxing, guiding him to lean flat against the couch as much as he can with his wings in the way. A garble of low, pitching sounds echoes faintly, but it's just fuzzy static compared to the harsh _screaming_ in his head. There's not much that can over take angel-radio and truly scream like this. His weakened Grace trembles with the strain, as if every molecule of him inside Jimmy is pulling and wrenching apart; it feels like the time that Raphael killed him in the prophet's house, except this time it's in agonising slow motion.

Just as the angel's last wisps of awareness begin to desert him. The sound stops.

The silence is so jarring it feels as if someone just wrenched his head above icy water. Flooding his entire vessel with complete and overwhelming _feeling_ again. In a sudden jolting cough, air races back into his lungs; contrary to whatever Dean had believed previously, angels in their vessels tend to breathe.

It takes a few moments to simply settle. The world clears back into focus in strange leaps of differing senses reawakening from the near brush of unconsciousness. The noises around him break through in one sudden moment, each sound too loud and far too quiet at the same time against the echoing memory of the violent cacophony; it's so disorientating he feels light-headed, panting and coughing to try and make sense of the world again.

There are another couple of tense moments that pass by, until eventually his chest stops feeling like he's swallowed a mouthful of holy oil that's being ignited behind his ribs. Sam's gentle tones slowly morph back into words, the tone changing rapidly as the younger Winchester throws back a comment to his older brother, before the words become softer again when aimed at the Seraph.

“-tter? Castiel? Cas, man, can you hear me?”

Grappling with himself, the angel forces the turmoil of his Grace to calm, easing it now the danger seems to have passed. It's quite by accident he slides his eyelids slid back open, not aware of when he'd closed them, looking straight up into the concerned hazel of the younger Winchester leaning half over him. Dean is hovering tensely beside him; for once the concern in his eyes is at the surface and unguarded, it confuses the abused creature. “Yes, Sam.” He gives hoarsely, hesitantly pushing himself to sit up again, relieved that despite the slight throbbing of his injuries, the small episode hasn't really damaged him.

“Hey! Whoa, Cas! Just, easy for a moment yeah?” Dean shouts anxiously, warm hand coming down on Castiel's shoulder, but not pushing for him to lay back either. He must catch the angel's deep wince against his raw senses, because his next point is much quieter. “What the fuck was _that,_ man?”

The Seraph rubbed his forehead absently, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch as if to get up; Dean's sharp warning glare and Sam's gentle concern keep him unhappily seated. “Something just...tried to, connect, to my Grace.” He explains haltingly, working his throat and trying to sort out what had happened for himself and how to best explain it to them. The resounding wails of pain fade more from his mind with every passing second.

“That can happen?” Bobby's voice came from Castiel's right, but though it was fading, the pounding in his skull is enough that he doesn't feel like needlessly turning to look at him.

“It...It came through “Angel-Radio,” it seemed familiar, but highly specific. I don't think anyone else received it.”

Dean practically spits his humourless chuckle out. _“Lucky them_ , what the hell do you mean familiar? We talking angel familiar?”

Castiel narrows his eyes in thought, grateful when Sam pushes a water bottle into his hand and he takes a few seconds to down the lot. It's somewhat surprising how much better he feels for it. “It was so loud. Only angels can access angel radio, but this was... desperate. I've only ever felt it like this in the first Heavenly wars.”

Sam screwed up his forehead. “You mean, like when Lucifer first attacked Heaven?”

The Seraph nods, wincing sharply for his careless efforts and rubs his forehead again, Uzziel's worried whines aren't helping ease the ache. “Yes. It was a call for help, an ...S.O.S as you would say.” Feeling slightly more whole than before, the angel achingly pushes himself to his feet. Spotting Jimmy's shoes on the floor at the end of the couch, he makes a beeline for them.

“Wait.” The older Winchester walks towards him like he's stalking prey. The disagreement on his face is hard to miss. “You're not actually _going_ to this thing, right?” He sounds rightfully angry. Castiel really doesn't have the mental balance right now to fight about anything.

The angel barely hesitates, sliding the black shoes on and absently noticing how strange it feels not to be wearing socks with them. “One of my siblings is being _tortured,_ Dean. I will not sit by.” That's the end of the matter as far as the angel is concerned. Castiel doesn't need the hunter's approval, he just needs him to move.

The older Winchester grabs his forearm just as he slides his angel blade out from under his ruined trench coat on the side. His grip doesn't even waver when the angel winces at the tug on his sore shoulder. The frustrated concern in the human's eyes makes the angel pause. “Cas, man. This is probably a trap, and you're in no shape to fight.” The stern look in his eyes was enough for Castiel to know he wasn't leaving the safety of the house without more than just an argument

“Dean, I don't have time for this. The origin of the signal is not too far from here, I should be able to make the distance and back.”

The use of the word “should” doesn't do anything to improve the expression on Dean's face. The older Winchester shakes his head even as Castiel forcefully pulls out of his grip and aims for the back door. He's mournful about leaving the coat.

“I gotta agree with Dean, Feathers. This is a bad move.” Bobby adds from the sidelines, the older hunter seems to know better than to think he can physically stop the angel going. Sam nods his head in agreement with the gruff old hunter and his brother, but even the younger Winchester can recognise the set look to Castiel's shoulders.

“I know.” And that's as close to an apology as the Seraph can find at the moment, he doesn't want to argue with them. But he can't simply stay either. “But I must go regardless, I have no intention of starting a fight I can't win.”

Gritting his teeth, Dean sighs and palms at his face, glaring as the angel steps through the threshold. He jogs forwards suddenly, picking up his duffel on the way past. “Damnit, Cas! If you're gonna be stupid then I'm coming with you. I just finished putting your Humpty ass back together again you idiot.”

Sam tails his brother quickly, glad he was still wearing his boots and plucks up his own duffel too, giving a resigned looking Bobby a quick farewell nod as both brothers disappear through the back door into the night. “Freakin' Idgits.” The elder human sighs in exasperation.

Castiel turns to the two Winchesters, stretching his wings tentatively, testing for pain. He shakes his head as they come up even with him, not fast enough to move away from Dean grabbing his wrist. “I will not put you two in danger this time.”

The older hunter gives another humourless snort. A real deep fear is still showing in the depths of all of that green, and Castiel is folding before the hunter even voices his argument. “Like hell you have a choice, man. Besides, I want to be there to say I fucking told you so.”

Sam rolls his eyes, sharply elbowing his older brother in the ribs “Castiel, we're coming. You might be able to make the flight there and back, but you shouldn't be fighting alone.”

Baulking at the hit, Dean still manages to give the angel a warning glare and a nod, a surety in the movement telling the angel they won't be swayed from their choices. He supposes that his two Winchesters also have a few stubbornness issues embedded within them.

They don't have the luxury of time to continue arguing about the issue. Castiel merely gives out a sharp breath of defeat, reluctantly reaching out two fingers to their foreheads. His great black wings rise up behind him in preparation, the moonlight making the feathers turn a haunting silver, mixing with the orange fire coming from the porch lamp and the last thing Dean sees is the shifting blaze of feathers beating down sharply before the world beneath his feet falls away and his stomach drops to his shoes.

The landing comes with jarring force. Both Winchesters stumble a pace forwards at the unexpected hard return of the pavement, and both are suddenly more reluctant to use angel airways again to return to Bobby's.

Castiel stumbles too, taking a jerky step forwards and breathing as if he'd just sprinted here instead. He's somewhat vaguely surprised he managed to stay on his feet at all; even more surprised that they're actually very close to where he was aiming for.

For all that Dean's been radiating anger for the last few minutes, he still manages to sound worried, if a little patronising. “Cas, you okay, buddy?”

“I am.” The Seraph lies, his wings are throbbing appallingly, his left considerably worse than his right; his Grace feels as if it has been pulled in too many directions at once, leaving him feeling shaky and weak. _It could have been worse, it could have been worse_ he chants to himself until he can force himself to stand up straighter and shove the ache from the forefront of his mind. He can still make the trip back he's sure, but he's glad the Winchester's insisted on accompanying him. It may have made the flight much harder, but at least he would have allies if this does turn into a fight. And honestly, when has he ever been successful in avoiding one?

Dean nods again, scowling at the angel like he's noting down all the little things he's going to scream at him for later. “Good, now. How about you tell us where the _hell_ we are, and why we're here.”

The younger human sighs tiredly, kneeling down and pulling his preferred weapons out of his duffel and concealing them on himself. Sam has to agree with Dean that this is a pretty bad idea, but there's no need to bicker about it either. They're not exactly helping keep their cover either.

The angel glares back at the hunter, he is far too exhausted to put up with Dean's grating brashness. “Muncie, Indiana.” He answers sharply.

Dean raises his eyebrows and glances around them warily, as if only now realising that they're standing around in the middle of the road in the middle of the night. “Wait, Muncie?” The area they've landed in is along a stretch of a deserted highway, dark trees hanging over the road and causing tiny shafts of moonlight to rain down between scarce gaps in the leaves. It's almost utterly dark under cover and the cold air added to the ominous feeling of apprehension the area seemed to reek of. “That sounds familiar.” It smells like wet under brush and motor-oil.

A pitched cry rings out in the darkness, about fifty metres up from where they've landed on the right side of the road. The trio share a quick questioning glance before hurriedly jogging towards the pained sound, senses on high alert and all three glancing around warily. Closing in, the trees on that side of the road suddenly give way to an open space of tarmac; faded lines on the ground giving away the area as an old parking lot. Gravel scratches beneath their feet no matter how hard they try to be silent.

Dean was glancing mistrustfully through the trees and into the gloom when Sam's worried voice draws his attention again. “Holy crap, Dean.”

The older hunter looks up and stops dead. “...Holy crap!” There's a derelict building before them, looking unused for decades at least, rotted and dark. It would've be completely unrecognisable if a broken neon board hadn't just being clinging to it's supports; broken, rusted silver letters crooked and sometimes absently spelling: _E si n F e ds Hote ._

The Winchester brothers spend an indulgent moment staring at each other in paralysed shock, eyes dart over to Castiel who's become impatient with waiting for them to concentrate back on the problem at hand, the Seraph striding off purposefully around to the side of the abandoned building. Dean shakes his head clear, no way was this happening. “Sam!” He barked out, fighting to keep his voice low through his bewilderment.

The younger Winchester simply shakes his head too, he doesn't have an answer to spare his brother and hurriedly takes off after Castiel's disappearing wing tips catching the silver moonlight. “I know, Dean. Come on!” A ripple of thunder breaks out above their heads, the once clear sky coming over with thick black clouds, beginning to block out the moonlight. Dean grits his teeth harder and chases after, pulling out Ruby's knife. Catching up to them a few seconds later, the sounds of scuffling and raucous laughter becomes unmistakable, the sickening cackles getting louder and louder as the trio press themselves flat against a crumbling wall.

The only light was coming from the moon, and as another ripple of thunder rumbles across the sky, the faint luminescence weakens even further. The shadows stretch out and visibility just keeps getting worse and worse.

Hell. Dean has such a bad feeling about this.

–


	12. Brothers In Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to get complicated, and this is definitely not what Dean signed up for.

The angel and two hunters keep themselves pressed tightly against the damp, moss covered wall and out of sight. The older Winchester has a few seconds to feel repulsed as something large with far too many fucking feet crawls over his hand, before a muffled thump and half swallowed choke breaks through the heavy silence. Raucous laughter follows, the grating jeers sending a harsh shiver up the hunter's spine like an electric shock. Dean doesn't need the Seraph's supernatural senses to know that they've got demons on their hands, the sheer apprehensive bite of rage isn't something you lose even after escaping Hell. Dean's fondness of their odds just keeps dropping and dropping.

Gravel crunches quietly under foot as the angel in front of him shifts sightly on the spot. Castiel's gripping his blade so tightly Dean has half a mind to wonder if it's hurting his palm; the Seraph's eyes have turned to that terrifying ice blue, drained but still blazing wrath boiling just beneath the surface of his skin. “Six demons” The angel mutters softly, tucking his wings close to prevent them being spotted. He frowns in concentration and the huge limbs abruptly flicker out of sight, shielding them from view to hide his injuries. Dean grimaces, he's been keeping a wary eye on how much Grace the stupid creature was wasting in his moping, not that he'd broadcast about it; either way, the hunter's not convinced how long Castiel can keep the limbs hidden. It's one thing for the angel's to know about the Seraph's storage issues, quite another for demons to be in on the trade secret too.

Then again, the growing tension from the angel has Dean guessing that those Demon's aren't going to be a problem to anyone again. It's been a long time since the hunters have gone up against Hell spawn, and this Winchester is more than ready to get back on the ass-kicking train.

Sam reaches across and grab the angel's sleeve before they can step out of their cover, those icy blue eyes turn on the younger Winchester in confused anger. “Bad odds, Cas.” He whispers quickly, eyes flicking to Dean for back-up. The older Winchester is torn, but Sam isn't wrong. They only have two weapons between them capable of killing Demons, and by the sounds of it, there could be someone that would need to be either protected or put out of their misery. Bad odds on a good day, and this was not what they would call a good day.

The Seraph tugs his arm from the human's grip. Dean finds it kinda funny that Castiel is the one refusing to listen to reason this time round. The angel gets half out a step before the harsh laughter is drowned out by scathing words. “What Crowley wouldn't give for you?” A smooth, distinctly feminine voice rings out, slicing through the quiet like a physical blade, Dean's first thought is _predator._

She chuckles almost sweetly, the way she's pausing isn't encouraging. She's not worried about back up arriving, she's not frightened of being out in the open. “Now, darling. I won't lie about it, I want to rip your wings off!” Another pause, the hunter can practically picture her licking her lips at just the thought. Well, at least they know for sure now that it's an angel they're chasing after. “But, dragging you into Hell?” A throaty chuckle. “Much, better.”

_Oh._

Can demons even do that? Drag an angel into Hell for torture like a human soul? Would a rack be enough to hold one down?

Dean has his answer the moment he catches a glimpse of his Seraph through the deep gloom. His face has gone totally blank, there's a cascade of memories flooding up behind that blue eyed wall and sometimes the older hunter wonders just what Castiel _saw_ in Hell that can make him look like that. White hot guilt burns through his veins.

The angel has no time left for trips down memory lane, gaze turning dangerous as he spins away from the wall confidently and strides out into view, a quiet fury to his steps that makes the thunder above their heads feel angry and eager for bloodshed. The two hunters glance at each other. Sam gives a small shrug, Dean sighs, they both stroll out to follow the Seraph.

Weeds have sprouted up between the deep cracks of the old asphalt, giving their footsteps an odd muffled rhythm, even so, they are not noticed.

Six Demons are milling around in the dark, the ones hanging back prowling like starving pack mates not high enough in the food chain to get the first bite. It's hard to keep track of them all in the thick black that seems to be swallowing everything in their path. Everything except the glinting silver of Castiel's sword.

Dean'd been doubtful that there was any chance of it. He was there that day, he watched Lucifer storm the building, though he doesn't have a damn clue why the place looks so utterly wrecked. Seeing that stupid, rusty, health hazard of a sign had just made him certain this was some kind of fucked up trap for Raphael to finish off the work he started in Hugoton. But, from what the hunter can see through the grim dark smothering the lot, it's not. This isn't what Dean signed up for; but, he's kind of annoyed that he's so damn surprised. There's not a person on Earth that Dean could mistake that violent freaking archangel for, you don't forget a face that belongs to such a powerful creature. And _of course it's Gabriel._

The sight stops him cold, because this is a rescue mission. So what the hell could have happened to Gabriel that requires backup? There are some things Dean would be happy to live the rest of his life without knowing.

It's undoubtedly the Archangel, being restrained by two of the larger demons flanking each side of him. Well, being held up was probably a better description, the two Hell-spawn pinning his arms cruelly behind his back. The hunter can see from here that there's no strength in the creature. But it's way too dark to tell anything for sure, he doubts he's even conscious.

Sam sucks in a tight breath beside him, bringing the wider world back into focus in one jarring second. “Gabriel?” His baby brother's eyes harden in a way that has Dean gripping Ruby's knife tighter. Christ knows that Sam of all people has a long ass bone to pick with that six winged dick, but even if the midget is undoubtedly an asshole, not even he deserves to be slung on Hell's rack.

Lightning erupts above them, snaking jaggedly across the black sky, blinding the area with dazzling light. Castiel takes a menacing pace forwards, the Hell-spawn turn as one, confusion and fear settling into the air with along with the cloying smell of Ozone and impending rainwater.

“ _Release him._ ” The Seraph's voice drowns out even the thunder over their heads, the angel immediately dispatching the over eager demon that rushes to attack without thought with a quick stab to the throat. There silence is heavy as the five remaining demons stare and shift uneasily as their sixth member drops, still sparking in his death throes as it hits the floor. Tension falls across the group like a sheet, whatever humour there had been before had thoroughly been lost. Castiel's eyes narrow into icy grey steel. _“I won't ask twice._ ”

The only female of the group takes a confident step forwards, shoving one of her underlings to the side as she goes, all curves and devilish eyes. It's brandishing an angel blade in it's possessed hand like a promised threat. Her voice purrs in the gloom, dark eyes glancing at the Seraph with rather too much forced confidence. “Kill them.”

The sight of the angelic weapon is meant to be a brag, a fear factor to the angel; a sound like grinding steel rips through the air, cutting the demons ears like sharpened blades, the Seraph's fury making the air thick with damp. Holy shit, he actually damn well angelically _growled_ in warning. All of the hairs up and down Dean's arms and neck stand on end, static filling the humid air. Lightning strikes down a few metres to the demon's right. Man, it's hard to truly piss Castiel off, Christ knows Dean's spent a good share of his time trying to wind the stoic creature up.

That little nerdy bastard can be scary as fuck when he wants to be. It's not the first time that Dean's been glad that that stubborn moron of a Seraph is on their side.

A part of the hunter feels a bit sorry for the ignorant bastard holed up in that poor possessed woman. Mostly he's just spitefully basking in the feeling of _good._

The wily smirk on the women falls from her face, a glimmer of fear flickering in her eyes as the angel takes another step forwards, trying to provoke the filthy creatures into attacking. The four others hesitate, this clearly isn't what they've signed up for either. An archangel as defenceless as an insect is one thing, what looks like a fully powered Seraph is quite another story. They shuffle on the spot, sharing snarling glances between themselves. The two keeping the Trickster upright let go; the injured creature drops bonelessly to the ground, unconscious or dead then. The group of demons rush them.

Obviously not the brightest Demons to have ever walked the Earth, dropping your only bargaining chip when you have an avenging, pissed off angel on your ass isn't what the hunter would call a great strategy. “Sam!” Dean calls out quickly, ducking from the only demon that hadn't gone for the angel. “Go!” He doesn't have time to see Sam nod as he swings out of the way of another punch and slams Ruby's knife between the huge bastard's ribs. The older Winchester has half a moment to see his brother reach the apparently resurrected archangel, before he turns and leaps at the smaller of the three demons that are crowding Castiel. Trying to overwhelm the angel through sheer numbers, it hasn't taken long for them to work out that this Seraph in particular is only flying at half mast.

It's kinda strange to be swinging punches in a rhythm with the angel when he hasn't got that stupid trench coat flapping around like some overly dramatic show-off. It drives the hunter up the damn wall in the few times that they get caught fighting together in close quarters, the stupid tails slapping the hunter's calves every couple of seconds. No, it's not disconcerting with it missing.

Without it, Cas seems to have a smaller presence in the fight, the angel always carries a strange _otherness_ with him in anything he does; Dean can't tell if it seems a bit more muted today because he's running wounded or because he's missing moronic thing. He's still coming across as a damn unintentional show off though. It's almost distracting how much skill the angel has with that strange blade of his, the much tighter fabric of his black T-shirt showing off the more graceful movements driving the angel's fluid attacks. Dean has always been about power and using your opponents strength against them when outmatched. Castiel seems to be a complete symbiotic mix of everything Dean's ever seen, not to mention the stuff that he's learned from who knows where, but refined and powerful in a way that Dean's mind physically can't handle fast enough to make work; it's easy to forget that Cas is a soldier sometimes.

The hunter smirks, driving Ruby's knife through the spine of one of the demons. It drops from his face like a stone as he catches sight of the women trying to attack from the angel's blind spot. The angel is too busy plunging his longer blade through the column of another demon's throat. Castiel doesn't pause in his turn, ignoring the bitch in favour of slashing the last male possessed demon's throat; exposing his back completely to the grinning hell-spawn. The hunter's too far away to do anything about it, staggering around some warning sound stuck in his throat. It makes a fucking annoying amount of common sense that a creature used to relying on _other_ senses in a demon fight might fuck up with the volume turned all the way down. Dean knew this was a freaking bad idea.

Th Seraph's huge black wings snap back into sight; the right wing flapping out so violently the gleaming serrated edges of his flight feathers blaze like bread knives, slicing the demon's head from her shoulders.

Well...shit.

The hunter can only stand there stupidly and stare as both demons drop to the floor at the same time, the black wings retracting back into their usual position as the Seraph wiped the blood from his blade; a look of disgust on his face that always shows up whenever he has to deal with such filthy creatures. He's favouring his left shoulder badly, but he's far from looking anything but pissed off. “Hey, Cas?” He calls instead, picking up the other dropped angel blade, palming off the grime and grit before handing over it to the Seraph.

Taking the offered blade, the angel's steely expression fades at Dean's voice. He gives the hunter a curious look, all soft, gentle blue eyes again. Chortling at his pansy ass Seraph, Dean playfully bumps his fist against his right shoulder, grinning like a moron high on an adrenaline rush. “Yes, Dean?”

The human merely grins wider, patting the Seraph's shoulder amicably and sheathing Ruby's knife through his belt. “You're pretty awesome, Cas.”

The angel's frown of confusion breaks through to a pleased half smile. Sam's impatient “Cas!” interrupts whatever the angel was about to say. The concern in the younger Winchester's tone has the Seraph striding quickly over to his brother's side and kneeling down beside him. The older Winchester follows over reluctantly. He's not really in the mood to deal with the archangel, no matter his condition.

The way Sam's frowning has the other Winchester doubting the outlook's good. “He's in really bad shape, Cas...”

Against Dean's hopes, it is Gabriel, looking identical to the last time they saw the poor bastard nearly a year ago with the added extra copious amounts of blood and scrapes across his skin. The archangel's half curled on his side, small slices in his shirt and jacket where the demons had obviously being ripping into him before they flapped in on the Seraph Shuttle. Apprehension curls around Dean's ribs painfully tight. There's something glaringly wrong this picture and the hunter doesn't like how their standing mid-frame. “What's the deal man? Gabriel's an archangel, right? So how the hell did these wimpy ass demons get the jump on him like this? And that's not even mentioning: _Hello, alive again._ ”

Hunching tensely, Sam nods warily. “Yeah. I mean, he looks like crap, don't get me wrong. But none of this looks, well, anything near as bad as you did, Cas. What the hell is going on?” It's hard to see much in the dim light, but there's not so much blood that Sam's concerned there's a massive injury he just can't see, hidden beneath his clothes.

Crouching closer, Castiel's eyes narrow, looking further than any human could see. There's a clear confusion on the angel's face that doesn't show any sign of leaving, at least the hunters aren't the only ones here who don't know what the hell's happening. “The damage is far worse than either of you can see.” Is his slow verdict, uncertainty colouring his tone. Carefully passing the other angel blade to Sam, the Seraph cautiously propped his older brother against himself, taking care not to aggravate the wounds wisping out the brilliant celestial light. The archangel may have given the Seraph a bloody nose and few bruises the last time they saw each other, but they'd been closer than the humans yet understood in the early days of heaven. They didn't part on the best of terms, but Castiel wouldn't leave his older brother to die like this.

Sam's curiosity was piqued, Dean can see it in the scrunch of his stupid nerdy face. “What do you mean?”

Gently placing a hand against his brother's chest, the Seraph pauses for a moment to glance up at the human brothers. “His Grace has been revived, but it has...It's missing great chunks. As if it's torn and shattered, I'm surprised that he's still alive, his strength at the moment would be below even mine. The demons would easily have been able to restrain him.” He scowls down at the offending blade resting loosely in the younger Winchester's grip. “That's no ordinary angel sword. That's an Archangel's blade. Gabriel's blade.”

Well that explains why Castiel had been so pissed to be threatened with it, the demon must have physically taken it from and injured his brother with it. Hell knows what Dean would've done if he'd been standing in Castiel's shoes.

The hand on Gabriel's chest gained a faint white outline as the Seraph spoke, a line of concentration marring hi s forehead, another celestial light in the dark, damp night. “I can't heal his injuries properly yet, I'm not strong enough. But I can't fly him away from here without stabilising his Grace either, it would kill him.”

At that Dean has to protest, this was going a few steps too far for the older Winchester's tastes. “Wait a minute, Cas. I get he's your bro, I do. But this guy is a grade A douche nozzle, he's killed me more times than I can count. Hell, Cas! He almost got you killed!” The guy was an asshole, that's the only way to swing it.

“If it wasn't for Gabriel, we'd still be trying to stop the apocalypse, Dean” Sam shoots in straight away, the younger Winchester was just as pissed with the archangel, probably even more so than his older brother. But there's no denying that the sweet-toothed idiot had saved their asses big time the last time they were at this damn hotel, not to mention the whole throw Luci back in his cage business. Though, they all could have done without the porno suicide note. Ruined a classic for the older Winchester that did.

The older hunter's eyebrows rose, fuming disbelief leaking through. “You too, Sam? He turned you into my _friggin' car.”_

“He saved our asses.”

“He was saving that chick!”

“Be quiet, both of you.” Castiel snapped out severely, stabilising an angel's Grace was hard enough, but stabilising an Archangel's Grace when his was so exhausted was far, far harder and their pointless bickering isn't helping one bit. “I will not leave my brother to die, Dean.” He adds darkly, surety in his tone. It's his I will do this without you if I have to voice. Dean really hates that one. “So you can argue your grievances with each other later. In case you've forgotten, Gabriel is the only archangel left that might be able to help us.”

Dean glares back balefully. “Doesn't mean I have to like it.”

That seems to be the last word the angel is willing to hear on the matter, the stubborn asshole's eyes sliding closed as he concentrated on his stupid mojo. The only thing capable of reviving an archangel is their Father. No matter how much the Seraph tries, he can't understand why God would bring the youngest archangel back barely powered, it could take months for Gabriel to fully recover from this, and there'd been a real chance that Gabriel may not have even survived long enough for another angel to find him. Why would their Father be so reckless? Not to mention cruel. It bothers him endlessly, only getting worse as he takes in the scale of the supernatural damage. His brothers Grace is barely a cinder compared to the roaring blaze it had once been.

–

Dean had decided some minutes ago, that it they had to stick around and save that freaking violent psychopath, the older hunter was entitled to some well earned grumbling. And grumble Dean Winchester freaking did. His little brother's bitch-face had been racking up the scale to full out For Fucks' Sake, Dean, before at last, Sam had snapped at him to go and get their abandoned gear.

Marvellous, that meant he could damn well grumble to his hearts content.

Castiel had dropped into his Vulcan mind-meld thing nearly five minutes ago, and to say the hunter was becoming impatient was a gross understatement. Stooping, he plucked up the duffel straps from where they'd been left at the base of the mouldy crumbling wall, slinging one on each shoulder. The dark clouds above them were starting to clear again, moonlight beginning to filter back through and give them a little more light to work by. The thunder had stopped a few moments after the fighting did and Dean was pretty certain there hadn't been a single scrap of natural storm in it. The cloying humidity and strange ozone had faded away as well now, that the hunter really took a second to breathe deeply.

He makes a new mental note to never _really_ piss Cas off, all highlighted and underlined and everything.

Stepping back into the open space of the lot behind the decrepit building, he casts a cursory check for his younger brother a good couple of metres away. He nearly swallows his tongue as someone flickers into existence at his brother's turned back. “Sam! Behind!”

The younger Winchester's head snaps round, catching a glimpse of a newcomer in the dark space far too close to his back for comfort. Castiel's eyes also fly open, the tired blue regaining the ice that had faded after the battle as he draws his sword threateningly, gently easing his older brother down onto the ground. The new comer is maybe Dean's age, but dressed in a loose grey suit that suggests the guy had once been a banker or finance manager before this messed up thing had possessed him. He's a handsome guy by most standards, blonde hair carefully slicked back, stubble lining his jaw and grey eyes piercing.

“Ithuriel” Castiel growls darkly, standing into a battle ready stance.

Great, another demented angel on a killing spree, just what was at the top of this Winchester's Christmas list.

The new angel seems startled to see Castiel, eyes widening as he scans over his angry looking sibling as if he's spotting the impossible. His raised eyebrows only crawl higher as he notes the Winchesters too.

There's a tense half-second. Dean can see the angel putting all of the dots in the right order and connecting them in his mind. The vessel's light grey eyes glaze over with rage as it all snaps into sharp focus. “You killed Zephon!” The angel roars instead, hand flying up and suddenly Castiel is being shoved through the air, thrown away from the group a good couple metres, landing hard on the asphalt in one heavy _thump._ Dean can hear the Seraph's gasped choke as his injured shoulder hits the ground from the other side of the lot.

Ithuriel sneers blackly. “I'll kill you in a moment, _brother_.” The words come out like poison.

Wind roars across the space between them, the angel spinning on the spot, blade dropping down into his hand as his target seems to change instantly. His seething grey eyes turn on the wounded archangel instead, striking down at the vulnerable archangel before Dean can even start moving. He doesn't like the parallel from two weeks ago.

Sam jolts on the spot, ignored by the angel. Springing up instinctively, he slams the point of Gabriel's sword through the newcomers chest in one violent strike. Ithuriel freezes to the spot, stunned gaze locked on to the blade embedded within his sternum. Light erupts from the vessel's eyes in one scalding rush, Sam twists desperately, throwing the body away from him and archangel at his feet. The angel's wings scorch into the tarmac with a heavy boom, a few rotten beams to crashing down inside the ram shackled hotel, the noise a haunting soundtrack to the tense darkness outside.

Nobody bothers to breathe for half a moment, too busy taking in how quickly it'd happened. Shaking himself back to the problem at hand the older Winchester moved over to Castiel, clasping his wrist and pulling the bruised angel back to his feet. Blood is starting to leak through the stark white of the bandages on his wings, Dean growls in exasperation, great, now he's got to fix the damn thing again. If the hunter had thought Castiel had been favouring his left before, now it's clear as day. Stiffly, the Seraph paces back to Gabriel's side, Dean heaves the duffel bags higher on his shoulders and follows suit.

“We need to leave immediately.” The Seraph states blandly, gently hooking Gabriel's left arm around his neck and standing with a wince, propping the older angel up against his side. His right wing curls around his injured brother like an added support, the older Winchester absently wonders if it's subconscious or not.

Rolling his eyes, Dean slings the bags more firmly over his shoulders and slips Gabriel's blade into one of them the moment that Sam hands it to him. “Yeah, no shit, Cas.”

“What about stabilising his Grace?” Sam added watching the dark tree line warily, it suddenly feels far too open here. Dean's more concerned with the emotion that looks a suspicious amount like concern lighting up his brother's features and _Hell no_ , he better not be feeling sorry for that asshole.

Castiel gives the younger hunter a grateful nod when Sam takes the archangel's other arm, taking some of the weight off of the Seraph's injured shoulder. “I have done what I can, Sam. He should make the flight, but it will take some more work before he wakes up again.”

“Can't wait.” Dean drawls bitterly, letting Castiel place two fingertips on his forehead and bending his knees in preparation as the Seraph awkwardly grips Sam's wrist, while maintaining his hold on his older brother. Those enormous ebony and white streaked limbs rise up, and in one powerful moment, the ground disappears and the familiar unpleasant dizziness swallows the Winchesters whole.

–

The foursome touch down impossibly hard, right in the centre of Bobby's library.

The Seraph's wings take out a lamp and at least two stacks of books as the group stumble under the rough landing, Castiel hastily folding his wings up to prevent further mishap even as he continued to heave breaths like he's fighting the urge to throw up.

Uzziel's running around the room frantically, torn between wariness of the new comer or joy at their return and was switching between yips and growls as she circled like a tiny four legged satellite.

Bobby, when he finally stops swearing about the mess, merely eyes the new comer with an _oh for God's sake not another damn stray_ type of conditioned annoyance. Watching dispassionately as Sam and Castiel drop the injured creature on his couch. “Which one did you boys bring home this time? The Angel of Staining My Couch With Unfavourable Substances?”

Castiel ignored the resigned bickering, drawing a wooden chair closer to his brother's side and continuing his ministrations of trying to stabilise his brother's precarious Grace. “Gabriel” Dean answers irritatedly, pissed that the Trickster's in the house at all. He drops the two duffel bags back on the side with a growl.

The old hunter frowned suspiciously. “The archangel? Thought he was dead.” Now that they've mentioned it, the unconscious form on the couch did remind him of that Trickster from all those years ago.

Sam merely shrugs, kicking off his boots and digging around in his duffel. “Since when does that mean anything in our line of work?”

“Well, why'd you bring him here?”

Dean glared at Cas and his younger brother as Sam pulled out their medical stuff. “Ask those two. Cas wouldn't leave the asshole, and Sam thinks we owe him.”

Sam gave the ceiling a pure _give me patience_ look, the hidden plea for help only a younger sibling can manage, before giving his brother an annoyed bitch face. “He saved our lives, Dean. Not to mention telling us how to lock Lucifer in... back in.. _.that._ ”

Dean's annoyance wavers at his taller brother's suddenly all too pale face, yeah, sudden memory triggers are one of the biggest bitches of life after Hell. The older Winchester sighs and gives in. “Fine, Sam. We'll keep him for now, but so help me, one trick and I'll stab the bastard in the eye with his own sword.”

Relief stole over Sam's features in the same moment that Castiel sends Dean a flat warning stare. The older Winchester merely flips the Seraph off as Bobby just shrugs. “By all means, keep him here” The old hunter drawled sarcastically, without the real fire that would suggest he's really against it. “I swear, it's like you Idgits go lookin' for things to bring home and fawn over.”

The Winchesters give him sour stares.

The thought continues to amuse the old hunter, because the more he thinks about it, the more he realises the only one of the group that's supernatural is also the only one of the group to bring home something normal. Castiel had brought Uzi, Dean had brought Cas and now Sam had brought Gabriel. Dean doesn't like the sly grin on the older hunter's face.

Brushing off Bobby's comments, the older Winchester stared mistrustfully at the unconscious archangel. He looks worse under the brighter lights of Bobby's library, and it's annoyingly more difficult to not hate the asshole when he's doing his best impression of an over used angelic pin cushion. He's paler than Dean remembers, bruises marring his face; the looks completed by the split lip he's sporting and thin cut above his left eye that's dripped blood thickly down his chin and neck, contrasting with the sickly pallor of his skin. He kinda looks dead, it takes a few moments of hard staring before he catches sight of the dick's faint breathing. The only real tell is the slices leaking dull Grace wisps across the archangel's chest and stomach, or at least, the ones that Dean can spot through the rips in his shirt and jacket. But despite the blood, there's not a gash that looks particularly deep or wide. It'd hurt like a bitch, sure. But compared to how broken Castiel had looked after being shredded by those damn hooks, Gabriel had it easy.

“I still don't get this, man” He admits a few moments later, just watching the archangel had taken the bite form his tone. Sam flaps his hand to wordlessly agree even as he retreats to the kitchen for a bowl of hot water and a towel. Gratefully, Bobby presses a beer into his hand.

Castiel keeps his eyes shut and doesn't move his hands, but answers the human nonetheless. “The only thing capable of reviving an archangel is God himself. But, Gabriel was brought back with his Grace badly ruptured.” He pauses, trying to pull his thoughts together and translate them into words that the Winchesters will be more likely to understand. “Much in the same way that mine was damaged two weeks ago, but without the... Intense physical trauma.” The angel honest to God shudders at the memory. Dean can't find it within himself to blame him. “This'll not likely kill him anymore, but it's made him incredibly vulnerable to attack. The demons probably sensed his revival from nearby and came to investigate, I suspect Raphael may have also sensed his return. In his weakened state and under attack, Gabriel's Grace reached out to the last Grace he could be most certain wouldn't attack him. It's an instinctive response, back when Heaven was whole, it was an effective survival response.”

Dean's eyebrows rose as he swigged his beer. “He reached out to you.” And damn that was significant and important if the brief pain flashing across the Seraph's face was anything to go by.

The Seraph nodded tiredly. “Yes. Many angels in Heaven were, are, angry and betrayed by Gabriel's departure.” He gave another pause, wings dipping sullenly. “Myself included. But, some are angry enough to seek revenge for abandoning us. Ithuriel and Zephon were both Powers that used to work directly under Gabriel, and they were a very loyal unit. When Gabriel left, it tore great clefts between the angels who were loyal to him, they became confused and angry that he'd left them. Eventually, they were made to fuse with other Garrisons and many died fighting in Garrisons they were not trained to fight with. Raphael was probably the only angel besides myself that knew of Gabriel's revival, but unlike me, he did not know exactly where. It must have taken time to find him.”

Sam crossed back into the library and placed the bowl of water on Bobby's desk, soaking the small towel and started to clean the small cuts on the archangel's skin, carefully working around the mojo-ing Seraph. “But, why would Raphael try and have Gabriel killed? Even Lucifer didn't want to kill him.”

The Seraph sighed wearily, like he didn't want to have to go through this round of twenty questions until he's had a moment to catch his breath. Well, tough. As far as Dean's concerned, if they have to put up with the archangel, the nut-job's little brother's gonna have to explain some things. “Gabriel was the only other angel that interfered with the apocalypse. Without Gabriel's knowledge of the cage, I doubt we would have been able to defeat Lucifer at all. In Raphael's eyes, that is the most unforgivable form of betrayal. He tried to kill me the first time I saw him again too and I refused to aid him restart the war; he changed his mind at the last moment, believing it would be a lesson to others who would dare disobey him to wound me instead.” He scowled tightly. “It did not work out as he planned.”

“Okay...” Dean started, fighting passed the thick, tense, aggression radiating from the angel. “So...Gabe tries to stop the fighting, Raph gets pissed. Gabe comes back to life, and Raphie boy has one hell of a threat on his hands.”

Castiel nods. “Gabriel hates infighting, he will be angry enough with me as it is. But, he's also very loyal to my father, though I think he doesn't like to admit it. I hope he will not let Raphael kill the creatures he's already died to protect. It's also worse for Raphael because, although Gabriel is the youngest archangel, Raphael is the weaker warrior.”

Sam narrows his eyes, ringing out the now bloody towel and carrying on. “so, Raphael sent an assassin to kill Gabriel before he could recover and be a threat?”

“It would have been my brother's top priority.” Castiel agrees, sounding more than a little aggravated at the gall of his other archangel sibling.

“He's a damn coward that's what he is.” Dean growls, not for the first time thinking that Castiel's family is severely fucked up, it's one thing to go after a threat, it's another entirely when that threat is your brother who is already so messed up freaking _demons_ could hold him down.

“Had I not received that warning, Heaven would have killed him on the spot.”

“Or Hell would have used him as their new chew toy.” The older Winchester finishes, a little of the irritation at the archangel's presence falling away, Christ sometimes the idea of how low the dicks in Heaven will stoop makes the hunter sick. “I get why the asshole kept whining about that _witness protection_ crap. Sorry to say I'd take weird mini Gods over the other angels any day, Cas.”

Slipping his tired blue eyes open, Castiel sighed resignedly. “Sometimes, I feel the same way.”

–

There's precious little that Dean likes about this. Brother or not to Castiel, aid to stopping the apocalypse or not, died for helping or not. Dean doesn't trust Gabriel. Maybe it's a little petty to be holding on to all of their past grievances considering what Gabriel'd gotten for his troubles, especially when, in reality, Dean doesn't actually _remember_ dying those hundred times. He only had what Sam had told him. But that wasn't the god damn point. You don't just let something so dangerous and messed up set up camp on your couch.

There's infuriatingly little he can do about it. Castiel glares at him every time the hunter so much as mentions kicking the fake Pagan God to the curb, and usually, it's accompanied by Sam's appalled bitch face. That kid's too soft for his own good, damn freaking long-haired Disney princess.

It shouldn't really add to his ire, but for some reason it bugs Dean that even Uzi seems to be on Gabriel's side in this. After she'd finally calmed down again, she'd crept towards the limp archangel practically on her belly with nervousness, shaking like a leaf as she sniffed cautiously at his hand. After nothing disastrous befell her, she perked right up. Wagging her little black stubby tail eagerly and plopping down comfortably on Cas' foot to watch the archangel with an annoying amount of affection. And doesn't that just take the God damn cake. Dean had huffed, snatched up his empty bottle of beer, and gone in search of a tumbler of whiskey instead. This was definitely a whiskey type of problem.

At least Bobby seems to have a shred of sense left. The old hunter keeps staring at the two angels with the normal hunter's level of mistrust expected when having a usually powerful archangel passed out on his couch. I mean, Really? That's just asking for trouble one way or another. Still, over the two hours that passed, taking the night into the early hours, even Bobby seemed more and more resigned that the bastard was staying. And Bobby's usually the one that digs his heels in the longest when it comes to accepting the new random supernatural unveil of the week. It doesn't bode well.

It's really freaking aggravating. The more the hunter can convince himself that it's completely justifiable how insistent he's being about labelling the archangel a fucking menace to society, the more his brain keeps demanding the hunter acknowledge what the archangel has done for them too. Because, Hell, you can't just palm off _Helping to Avert the Apocalypse_ like it's the equivalent of hitting up the nearest store and picking up some much needed beer. If that murderous Trickster hadn't given them that back door key to the whole friggin' mess, chances are all four members of Team Free Will would be dead by now. And half the world along with it in the best scenario. The older Winchester's spent countless nights already trying not to think about the way things might have played out if they hadn't found out they could lock Lucifer back up.

Cas probably would've died first. Self-sacrificing bastard has a nasty habit of trying to protect the Winchesters, even when they don't really deserve it. Dean finds it frighteningly easy to imagine angels jumping them and Castiel taking a blade to the chest trying to buy them enough time to get away. It's a nasty cold stab in his chest. There's no ifs or buts about it. That''s just the type of guy that Castiel is, no amount of furious scolding would be enough to change the idiot's mind.

Whether or not Sam or Bobby would go next after Cas really depended on when they were attacked again, and if Bobby was with them at the time. Chances were, Bobby would go out the same way Cas did, protecting the boys. It's another painful blow to Dean's chest.

Sam would go last. Dean would make damn sure of it. There's no way in Hell that Dean would let his baby brother die before him, there may have been no fighting the fact that Sam would either end up getting killed, or getting possessed by Lucifer after Dean's death, but at least he wouldn't go first. He wishes so damn hard that it would never would have played out that way, but it's just that, wishful thinking. It's so freaking hard to think about the older Winchester cringes and shakes away nightmarish thought as far as he can.

It hadn't happened in the end. Thank freaking anything that would listen that it hadn't happened.

Castiel was alive, Bobby was alive, Sam was alive. And damn, that's such a fantastic feeling. Sure there's another apocalypse on their hands, sure there's a passed out archangel on the couch, sure there's no visible way out yet for this one. But Michael and Lucifer are in the cage and Dean is a hell of a lot more scared of those two assholes than he is of their moody ass brat of a younger brother, Raphael. And, though it annoys him severely, despite his malicious comments, there's no way that Dean would actually just hand the unconscious bastard over to a horde of Demons, or worse, the God Squad. He may intensely dislike the Gabriel, but Dean isn't cruel either.

It may be pointless to deny that without the youngest archangel they would have all been royally screwed, but Dean's still gonna give it his best damn attempt. Shaking himself, he tries to distract himself away from that annoying, growing part of his mind that's demanding he see the bastard for what he died for, and focused his attention back on what was happening in the library around him.

It's quiet, nearly half one in the morning, him and Bobby mindlessly flipping through a few more texts at the table; half-heartedly looking for mentions of angelic weapons and angel Grace because it's feels like it's been a way longer day than it really has and they're all feeling the strain. Sam isn't helping for once, instead eyeing the archangel from his half perch leaning against a chest of draws opposite the sofa. A frown has set up residence on his face for so long now that Dean's half tempted to tell his younger brother to start charging it rent. He gets the impression his comment may stir an over-tired hornets nest.

Dean had refused to help out of principle, watching grumpily as Sam'd set about cutting off the archangel's red shirt and dark jacket and tending to his physical injuries not long after the foursome had first returned. The slashes looked more serious in the brighter lights without the fabrics obscuring the view and Sam had spent a good hour cleaning and bandaging them under Castiel's tired watch. They had been right though, compared to the state Castiel had been in, and how the archangel would have looked after those demons had finished with him, Gabriel had gotten off relatively lightly.

The Seraph had being “stabilising” his older brother, whatever the hell that actually meant, for most of Sam's ministrations. Finally pulling away as Sam finished his own work, settling instead on the chair he'd pulled up to watch his brother carefully. Whatever the angel had done seems to have worked because the former Trickster didn't look quite so ashen, he still looks ill as hell, but at least he doesn't have that deathly pallor any more.

The same can't be said about Castiel himself. The better Gabriel looked without the blood coating him and slight colour back in his skin, the paler Cas seemed to become. Dean huffed internally that the idiot still hasn't brought up the fact that his wing had been torn open again somewhere in the fight. Eyeing the now bare foot angel carefully, Dean closed the worn book in his hands with a soft thump, dropping it back on to the desk and stretching somewhat more noisily than may have been strictly necessary.

Feigning nonchalance and mixing it with his genuine exasperation, the older Winchester stands stiffly, glancing down at the seated angel next to him. “Your Bro good for the night?”

Castiel's head tilts like a curious owl, inspecting his older brother closely, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees. There's a quiet moment of the Seraph just taking in the archangel's soft shallow breathing and stark white bandages, looking beyond what the human's can see. “His Grace is still weak. I've strengthened it as much as I can, and he is no longer in any danger. He should wake tomorrow or perhaps the day after, if that is what you mean.” He answers slowly, nodding to himself as it was as much a revelation to himself as it was to the Winchester.

Rolling his eyes, the human huffed again. Tugging sharply at the collar of Cas' black shirt, the hunter carefully avoided touching the huge ebony wings folded either side of him. “Well, Bobby'll be pissed if you get blood on his couch, c'mon you probably pulled something.”

Castiel hesitates, his left wing twitching as if now that the pain had been brought to his attention he was feeling it a lot more clearly. “I'm fine, Dean.” He answers softly, a slight surprise to the Winchester who'd thought this would be an easy deal. All the older Winchester wants to do is go to sleep damnit, he doesn't have the energy to put up with the Seraph's stupid stubbornness issues. Normally, the hunter would back out an insult sharp enough to provoke the angel, but just the way the angel had paused before answering has Dean giving the angel a once over of his own.

He looks almost as pale as his brother, the usual bruises under his eyes darker than the hunter remembers them being for a few days; and now that Dean was looking, Cas just seemed to be slumped in that chair as if he couldn't possibly find the strength to move, hands curled into fists as if to try and hide faint tremors. Dean narrows his eyes in suspicion, because thinking about it, the weakened and injured Seraph had put up with Gabriel's seizure inducing panic attack, flown all three of them across the country, dove straight into a fight, flown four of them back and used what little left over mojo he had saving his dick brother.

The hunter sighs tiredly. Complete and utter burn out of stubborn Seraph imminent.

Scowling deeply, the hunter tugged the angel's collar again. He's tempted to run a hand through the sea of ebony feathers of the right wing to convey his irritation, but Bobby's eyeing the pair occasionally from over the top of his book, and for some reason the action felt more invasive with those older eyes watching them. It had taken a lot for that barrier between the Winchesters and the angel to be broken, and Dean gets the impression that Castiel would be more peeved than amused if Bobby was suddenly invited to the party too like an unwanted plus one.

“I'll keep an eye on your brother, Cas.” The younger Winchester pipes up quietly, Sam giving the angel a reassuring smile and it didn't really occur to Dean that Castiel might also just want to keep an eye on Gabriel.

Another hesitation from the angel, another tug on his shirt. “Come on, Cas.”

Those tired blue eyes are a worrying level of vacant as Castiel gazes tiredly up at him, the set of his wings is lower than before, and Dean's getting used to them enough to know it's another indicator that Cas feels like crap. “Dean...” A feeble protest, and finally a resigned breath. “Very well.” The angel knows when to pick his battles.

With a party last examination of his older brother, the angel finally pries himself from his chair and Dean catches all of it. Everything from the evening, from the mental stress of Gabriel first battering angel-radio, to the physical strain of all the fighting and flying, it all seems to slam down onto the unsuspecting Seraph all at once. What little colour he had left drained immediately from his face, eyes going from tired lucidity to utterly blank in the space of a second, leaving the battered angel swaying on unsteady feet. The sudden warning signs just about gave Dean enough time to catch his arm as he starts to crumple, the Seraph falling against his chest almost bonelessly with a soft groan, huge black wings spilling across the floor, taking out yet another stack of books.

Hefting his weight more easily in his hands, the hunter jostled the angel carefully. “Cas?... Hey, Cas?” Despite the concern eating at him, Dean' a faint sort of amused even as Sam makes a move to help. Shaking his hand, the older Winchester flaps him off in a clear _I've got him._

Bobby merely rolls his eyes, muttering about his precious books and something that sounded vaguely like stubborn moron. Smirking dryly, Sam raises an eyebrow. “He good, Dean?”

Awkwardly shifting his hold and getting Cas' right arm across his shoulders, his right wing leaning against his back like a soft warm wall, Dean snorts. “Fried, I guess.” He drawls. The Seraph's at least supporting some of his own weight so at least the poor bastard hasn't completely passed out again. Huffing, the hunter dragged them both over to the stairs. “C'mon, man.” Stalking up the steps is a lot harder with Castiel almost too tired to hold his wings up, because though Castiel is not a large guy, his wings are fucking massive and aren't as light as they look. It's with mild swearing that Dean shoves open the spare bedrooms' door when they _finally_ reach the summit. The room is dark except for some of the soft yellow light spilling in from the hallway, and more brazen orange leaking in faintly from the window. The room is a wonderful, comfortable dark. Warm in a way that isn't common in Dean's lifestyle, reminiscent of the days when a young Dean Winchester had his own bedroom that was his small safe haven. The comforter on the bed is still that chocolate brown that Dean remembers from all the times he's stayed in this old house over the years, only now it still has the Afghan draped over it from where Sam had brought it up when Castiel had still been fighting for his life.

The furniture in the room is old, evocative of a time when the house had had that loving women's touch from all of those years ago. But only now with old books and other equally odd and random items spread over free surfaces. The result is the scent of worn old books, faint leather and dust. Just being in the room makes Dean feel sleepy, Castiel sinks a little more against the hunter's support.

The shift snaps Dean from his moments reverie and he shuffles the drained angel to the side of the double bed, awkwardly pulling the comforter and Afghan off, and gently pushes the angel down on to the soft mattress. “We need to have a chat about you passing out all the time. Just say you're tired and we'll set you up, man. Who gives a damn if it's not an angelic thing to do.” He adds scornfully, Castiel's blue eyes drift open again and the hunter is struck by how _old_ that blue suddenly looks, so old and so, so tired.

The angel just hums, a warm sound that almost makes Dean smirk and he nudges the Seraph's shoulder and the angel exhaustively lays back and curls on to his side, left wing curling lightly against his shoulder and the right resting against spare mattress behind him. It's a tell to how tired Cas truly is that he doesn’t even attempt to deny himself the luxury of almost relaxing into the mattress. Almost, because Dean's still never seen Castiel relax truly.

It's an oddly endearing sight; a Seraph curled up on a bed, wings tucked close to his sides, eyes closed and hair as unruly as it gets. The guy is still wearing Dean's black shirt and grey sweats and it's weird how quickly Dean's getting used to seeing him in his own clothes. They really should get him some of his own if he's going to be prowling around the house in them for the next week or so. Shaking his head, Dean gets the bag of bandages and other supplies they're left up here in a silent understanding of _for Castiel only_. The supplies in the tattered bag are beginning to dwindle, Dean makes a mental note to send Sammy out to get some more, God knows they were going to need it if Sam ends up overseeing the archangel's recovery as intently as his girlish watching downstairs had suggested. It's still a bit of an odd bet if Sam's first reaction to Gabriel waking up is going to be him scolding the archangel to be careful not to tear his stitches, or if the younger Winchester merely stabs him through the chest.

Yeah, right. When does Dean ever get those Small miracles?

Phasing out isn't going to speed this up at all. “Hey, Cas? You still with me, Buddy?” He asks wearily, gently running his palm across the top line of Castiel's left wing, the Seraph gives a low rumble of satisfaction and a sound that's probably an affirmative. Dean snorts to himself, beginning to cut through the large strips of bandages wedged between the enormous feathers, only stopping when a small weight begins pressing itself into his shin. A quick glance down reveals a shaking, wide-eyed Scottish Terrier staring back up at him. The runt had probably been terrified when Cas had collapsed; Dean had been too preoccupied to notice. Sighing, the hunter scoops the useless hairy runt up and drops her next to Cas' loosely curled hand on his pillow. She perks up immediately, snuffling at the Seraph's fingers and a small half smile breaks out across the angel's tired features, indulging the puppy in a lazy two fingered chin rub.

It totally doesn't make the older Winchester smile, because if that was true Dean would have to go out and do something inescapably manly just to regain his mental stability. Uzi gave a happy yip, nuzzling at Cas' arm and coiling herself down in front of his chest in what's become her default position. It's odd how much the odd pair seem to draw from each other, and Cas' eyes slide open again just as Uzi closes hers in content. Dean merely shakes his head and keeps working. The quicker he finishes this, the quicker he can sleep.

It takes a few moments of inspection, but Dean's a little relieved by what he finds. Castiel's wings are healing a little faster than the week before, the once gaping, shredded wounds have sealed in many places. But, there're areas where the wound is still severely messed up, skin barely holding together across the immense tears of muscle, the area swollen, flushed and feathers badly tangled. It hadn't looked this bad the night before, but then, Castiel had actually _flown_ today, twice. The damage from strained flight was obvious, about three renewed tears, one through Dean's meticulous stitches, each sluggishly oozing out blood and the faintest wisps of Grace.

“Cas, no more flying for a few days, all right?”

Castiel's blank gaze focuses again, following Dean's voice back into the world beyond his exhaustion. He nods softly, wincing at every brush against his injuries and wing twitches sharply beneath Dean's palms, flinching instinctively, against the stabbing pains. “I believe that to be wise.”

It's strange to hear the angel sound so sleepy, it makes Dean yawn despite his best efforts as he wipes away the blood and tapes the injuries again, closing the splits in the healing tissues. “You're tired, Dean.” Cas adds quietly, a small tone disappointed shame in his words that Dean doesn’t like the sound of at all.

“I'll keel once I've fixed up your wing, Cas. It's not like I'm in a hurry to get back to the floor.”

A frown greets Dean's off-handed response. Sam's been taking the couch, but now that was otherwise occupied, Sam would probably bring the panic room cot upstairs. Neither of the Winchesters like sleeping in the panic room alone any more. Dean would rather make do with the floor. Which wasn't so bad really, not compared to some of the shit holes they've stayed during in their time.

Castiel seems to take this as his queue to wage angelic war against gravity, trying to wince his way to sitting up.

“Hey! Whoa, Cas. Stop!” Dean brings his hand down against Cas' shoulder and the Seraph just sort of half flops back down into his pillow, smothering a swallowed groan of pain or failure, Dean can't tell which.

“You need this space more than I do, Dean.”

The hunter rolled his eyes, always with the freaking stubbornness. “Wrong, dude. Just,like, you're so wrong it's almost embarrassing.” He's amused by the glare Uzi levels at her owner for the disruption. “No one needs that space more than you, man. You look like you'd get taken out by a pansy ass butterfly.”

The angel's eyes close again, wincing at the jagged pain of his limb, and the hunter's less than flattering assessment. The angel still finds it within himself to huff in exasperation. “At least share.” He adds shortly right wing folding more tightly against his back, freeing the other half, or just under, side of the bed.

Dean's eyes flickered to the space and sighs, God knows it'd be freaking awesome to sleep on a mattress again. “Whatever, man.” He grabs at some fresh bandages from the bottom of the bag, internally sighing that he only has enough for tonight, and starts repacking the injury. Castiel's spends the whole process frowning like a scorned child. Dean knows that the Seraph finds the fabrics weight to be cumbersome and uncomfortable, Heaven knows the wing twitches enough because of it during the day, but there's not much the hunter can really do about that.

The room falls silent. Not an uncomfortable quiet, but rather a sleepy one. Both are tired in their own ways and the heavy, soft warmth of the room makes it all fifty times worse. Even so, there's still something nagging away at Dean's brain. He spends a good ten minutes biting his tongue, not convinced that Castiel is even still awake enough to answer him. Sighing bitterly, the hunter just decides, _fuck it_. “So, Cas. What's the deal with Gabriel? I get he's your older brother and all, but man. I gotta say. You don't seem that keen on a lot of them.”

The Seraph's frown deepens, a shock of brilliant, weary blue peaking out in a half-lidded gaze up at the hunter. Huh, still awake then. “I love all of my siblings, Dean. All of them.” He answers, tone thick with confusion. Dean knows a diversion when he hears one. Sure, maybe he's the last person who should be prodding at someone else's familial issues, but Dean's never been all that interested in social circumstance.

“Cas. You can't honestly tell me you _loved Zachariah_ , surely.” Maybe there was a better way Dean could've phrased that, or at least packed it with less bite, but too late now.

The lines around Castiel's eyes deepen further, wincing at Zachariah's name, his eyes open wider as he considers the human tying off his bandage. “Dean. You must understand, I am _old.”_

Dean raises a resigned eyebrow. “If you're gonna start showing off again, then-.”

A sigh, sharp enough to cut Dean's' complaint off at the roots. “Dean, I am older than I sometimes believe you understand.” There's almost a tone of melancholy to his voice, teetering on the brink of regret and longing. “I remember standing where the Earth is now, and watching the Sun start to burn... I've been fighting for a long part of my existence, have been with my siblings for so many of your years... And, though we truly exist outside of your physical bounds of time, even angels can change over it's course. Zachariah was once one of the kindest angels I've ever known. Raphael used to be gentle, the best healer Heaven has ever seen. Lucifer. He used to be beautiful, the brightest light existence has ever been blessed with.”

The hunter was lost in the pure _wistfulness_ in that tired voice. As much as Dean knows Cas, gets his weird perks and odd mannerisms, there is so much that he doesn't know about Castiel. The angel that's been watching the universes form, live, and even start to die. A vigilant sentinel, passively watching the way things were meant to unwind without the need, or permission, to interfere until ordered to by his father. Or until he met Dean.

The hunter feels a headache starting to form behind his eyes. They always end up here. Part of the hunter desperate to hear everything the angel has to say, the other half crying out against it.

Swallowing, the Winchester absently untwists a wayward feather from it's awkward position askew from it's brethren, the angel practically purrs in response. Dean wonders what Castiel had been like in the beginning, before Heaven became a battlefield. “What about Gabriel?”

Cas' frown eases into his amused half-smile. “He is... Much the same. Gabriel's been known for his playfulness and warmth since I was a mere fledgling.”

Dean nearly chokes on thin air. “So, what? Angels can be kids too?” That's way too trippy, not to mention damn hilarious to picture. The angel rarely talks about anything before meeting Dean in that barn, and the hunter has never bothered to ask.

The frown comes back full force. “...Not, exactly. Not as you are thinking, but fledglings are dependent on their older siblings for several centuries, during many of which they lack abilities such as flight or telekinesis, and are more susceptible to picking up emotional responses.”

Snorting, Dean shakes his head, finding another feather to set back into a more natural position. “That sounds a lot like a kid to me, Cas.” He smirks as Castiel sighs in defeated resignation. “It's weird to think of you as a little kid.”

Castiel proves adeptly that he's not too tired to glare.

“But, even if that damn Trickster didn't turn into a total douche, you still didn't seem happy to see him during that whole T.V land fiasco, and he's a pretty big bastard now.”

The Seraph falls quiet for a moment, Dean thinks that might be regret in that blue, the colour darker in the dim light. “...He abandoned us.” Castiel admits softly. “Michael and Lucifer's fighting became more and more constant. You must understand that two archangels attacking each other, unrestrained by vessels, caused immense damage to Heaven. Many other angels were injured in the resulting after shocks...” There's something about the way Castiel winces that has Dean thinking maybe the Seraph had been one of them. “Though I doubt he explained it too you,” the angel continued, “Gabriel frequently tore Michael and Lucifer apart from each other. He was even injured a few times in the process. But the fighting didn't stop. I think it just became too much for him in the end, Michael and Lucifer killing each other and our siblings.”

Castiel scowls, dark eyes hardening a little despite the weariness there. “But. When he left, the younger angels, us Powers in particular, felt betrayed. The fighting became worse in response, the two archangels blaming each other for Gabriel's departure and there was no one left to cease the fighting. Raphael was different by then, he used to mediate verbally rather than get physically involved. But over time he stopped caring at all. My father intervened in the end.”

Ending the fight that started the war.

“Gabriel didn't leave because he wanted to, I'm certain of that...” Castiel says begrudgingly, pausing long enough to carefully move Uzi and tentatively turn over onto his stomach and then onto his left side; watching motionlessness as Dean turns off the lamp, kicked off his boots, picked up the comforter and climbed onto the other side of the mattress. “I just, I understand how that feels.”

Dean had felt awkward enough giving in to stealing half of the injured Seraph's bed, though it's not like he and Sam had never flopped on to the same mattress God knows how many times in the past; his burning self awareness of proximity fades completely when the subtext of Castiel's utterance sinks in. It makes the hunter's muscles freeze, leaving him staring at the silhouette opposite him, even as Uzi sinks down between the two of them like it's Christmas. “Cas... You know you don't have to stay down here with us. If you think you can make the flight to Heaven... Go for it.” It was irritating that Dean's voice insisted on coming out so damn scornful.

The hunter heard, rather than saw Castiel tense beside him. “Don't misunderstand, Dean.” The angel adds quietly, absently tugging at the comforter. “I'm referring to the first time I realised Heaven's light had been sealed from me. I wanted to return, I won't lie about that. But, that's the past; I've since come to learn that home means something else to me now. I wish to fix Heaven, but I won't lose what I've gained to do it.” The angel settles against his pillow, right wing shifting in the darkness until it drapes across his vessel like a huge cashmere blanket.

Dean didn't realise quite how much he'd been waiting to hear that until an unknown pain disappears from his shoulders. It reminds him of every time the angel had disappeared on them since the end of the apocalypse, leaving the older Winchester wondering if the Seraph would ever bother coming back. Because, who would give up Heaven for the Winchesters?

Apparently a Seraph that 's spent a little too much time around Sam Winchester and his emotions. Dean convinces himself to swallow the sharp knot in his chest and forces out a huff of wry amusement. “Well, you _are_ Castiel Winchester, now. Remember, Cas? A permanent fixture to Team Free Will, but hell man, we need to get you away from Sam for a while, the dude's been _reading things_ about _feelings._ ”

A wholesome warm break fills the silences for a few moments, broken eventually by a soft hum deep in the angel's chest, as if the angel was letting the memory of Castiel Winchester settle firmly into his Grace and curling around it tightly. “Good night, Dean.” Was all he said in the end, not willing to put a bad word in about the younger Winchester brother's pursuit of social enlightenment.

Exasperated, the hunter rolled his eyes fondly. “Night, Cas.”

–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There isn't enough hurt!Gabriel in the world.


	13. Angelic Pride and Demonic Deals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm's brewing. Raphael has had enough.

For all of the millions of years that Raphael has kept his patient vigilance over Heaven, looming over the lesser angels like an ancient, unmoving sentinel; he is fighting the urge to smite the nearest living creature in furious irascibility.

As it is, the only thing keeping the archangel from sweeping the room with powerful, angry pacing is his overwhelming need to maintain his dignity and pride. He has not be so enraged since that ant Castiel and his _pet_ had left him to rot in that circle of infernal holy oil, and while his mood had been bolstered temporarily at the news of that disgusting Seraph's timely demise, Gabriel's revival has ripped it to shreds. Ithuriel had been discovered murdered the previous evening by one of Raphael's Garrisons, the opposition in too much disarray since their leader's assassination to take much note of the turn of events. 

Killed upon  _Gabriel's_ blade.

Only his Father knew why his irritating younger brother was suddenly breathing, or why the youngest Archangel had yet to make a move, but the pressure Raphael now felt to rip back control of Heaven from the chaos it had fallen into was crushing. The jolt of Gabriel's Grace grating against Raphael's own had felt off. Shaken as if mortally wounded, and Raphael hadn't hesitated in ordering his death. Ithuriel had been the only angel close enough (and lucky enough) to stumble upon the archangel, and Raphael had been relying on his only younger archangel brother being too disorientated or confused to put up a fight and be taken care of before he could interfere.

Apparently that was not the case, with Ithuriel dead and Gabriel flying around at full power, to say that the older archangel was becoming desperate was a gross understatement.

Lighting raged outside of the room, panels of the pathetic Earthly building they were sheltered in taking the brunt of the fierce, unnatural winds. Not for the first time in the last five minutes the archangel had to fight to regain enough self control to ensure he didn't accidentally kill the room's other occupant and level the entire structure. Not that he wouldn't eventually kill the filthy creature he had had his army searching for these last few days.

Just because he was the -recently self proclaimed- so called  _King of Hell_ doesn't make him any less of a demon, or any more of a threat to the archangel than a protozoa.

The building was what the humans might find extravagant. Mahogany furniture, chandeliers, huge windows and plush, thick burgundy carpets that matched the tastefully decorated walls. The room was an old study, glass bottles of expensive whiskey lining a shelf of an ancient but sturdy looking bookcase. The other shelves groaning under the weight of old tomes of multilingual titles that spanned several centuries of Earth's history. The huge desk was immaculately clean, no visible dust and papers aligned neatly beside dark blue fountain pens and leather bound journals. One orange floor lamp gave the room a warm, cosy feel against the raging thunderstorm just outside of the supposedly sturdy walls.

Raphael narrowed his eyes in disgust at being anywhere near such a vile hole.

The only reason the building and it's occupant were still in one piece was because the archangel had come to his last thread of patience with the levels of disobedience in the Host and that strand had well and truly snapped with Gabriel's resurrection.

It was going to  _stop_ . 

Castiel had tainted the Host, given them tastes of what the disillusioned vermin below them called “Free Will,” destroying their harmony. It was so close to blasphemy that the archangel was now aware that the only way to stop it's spread like a pathogen was to wipe the whole stock out. It was regrettable, but a necessary action. The apocalypse must continue, paradise would be theirs, and obedience would once again reign even in God's absence.

It was God's Will.

He will not allow a dead Seraph to become Heaven's martyr.

The filth opposite him has his hands stuffed deep into his blazer pockets, tailored suit masking his outline against the shadows well, as if knowing that the demon is in dangerous waters just by being near to the archangel. The demon has twice flicked his eyes over to the tumblers of whiskey on the side of the room, as if needing the action of holding the fragile glass to help maintain his cool façade in the dim light. The creature is wise in that it thinks better of carelessly moving under the archangel's stare to go to the alcohol, and instead peers back at the archangel with an air of a man in control.

Raphael nearly sneers. The demon is retreating to a business countenance, but the archangel could smell it's fear before he had even landed in the mansion.

_'As it should be'_ the archangel thought icily.

“Not that I don't love to entertain guests...” The demon began suddenly, confidence radiating from him and, if possible. aggravating the archangel even more. “You're not exactly someone I was expecting to see. So, what? Trouble in paradise?” Despite all of the confidence and easy countenance, the demon appears drained, the dim light of the room alluding to the pounding headache he can't quite hide. Fighting for power appears to have been as difficult for Hell as it had been for Heaven and the thought makes the archangel feel sickened and dirty that Heaven is being dragged down to Hells political level. An unholy brawl.

The wind outside the windows roars.

“Believe me, _Hell-spawn_. I am not here for social needs.” Raphael didn't raise his voice, his vessel's monotone was thick and powerful as it always was, but the lightning blazing past and the small flicker of the demons eyes was more than enough to let the archangel know the demon _understood_ just how much patience Raphael had for the creatures presence. “I require power.”

Crowley, as the demon was known to it's own kind, raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. There was little else that the archangel could be here for that required the demons continuing life. “I get that, love. Word is, Heaven's having a bit of a tiff. Little crumpet Castiel stirring all kinds of nasty.”

Raphael growled at the brazen attitude. “That traitor is dead.”

It seemed as if Crowley couldn't help himself as he again raised his eyebrows. “What, again? Feathers really got around didn't he.” Raphael narrowed his eyes, the dim orange light bulb flickering under his building impatience.

The demon tensed minutely.

“If you present yourself as being useful to me, you will live to see Lucifer ascend once more.” The archangel leaves a purposeful silence as he takes a steps towards the demon, “If you do not... Demons are not the only creatures that are familiar with _persuasion_.”

The idea of being able to collect some memories of demon screams delights the archangel. But there are more pressing concerns at the moment than playing with this maggot. He can always spare the time after he's exhausted the demon's usefulness.

Crowley, to his credit, brashly narrows his eyes at the archangel, a clear retort on his lips that dies the instant he realises the remark would not be worth losing his life for. Instead he settles the slip of anger out of his eyes and relaxes into the backdrop of shadows. “Well, then. Little birdies  _have_ been whispering about a ritual to crack open a little door to somewhere useful.”

Raphael glared at the demon with enough venom that he sensed the demon tense again. “Purgatory.”

The tension in his body did not leak into the demons voice. “Correct, gold star.”

“My Father created that realm purely for the use to entrap Leviathan. Releasing them would be unmanageable.”

Crowley clicked his tongue. “ _Absorbing_ the souls trapped within purgatory  _would_ give you the boost you need. I've done my homework, Leviathan would be too powerful for, regrettably, myself to control. Or for that fact an angel.” He paused, eyes gleaming like a dark snake in the dim light. “But an  _archangel_ . My friend, you, are almost literally, all powerful.”

The attempt to appeal to the archangel's pride was fruitless, Raphael needed no words from Crowley to acknowledge the extent of his power, the demon was clueless to what archangels were truly capable of. “And a demon happens to have extensive knowledge of this?”

Crowley nearly rolled his eyes, “Like I said, love. I did my homework. Your boys have been looking for me for nearly a fortnight, wasn't difficult to find out why.”

Raphael took another step towards him, a thin crack spreading through the ceiling above him as he moved, ire flaring at the thick self-assurance of the demon's tone; the action reminding the filthy creature just who he was conversing with. “If you fail to complete this ritual...There will be no stone you can crawl under, no corner of the pit deep enough to flee too.” The archangel growled, the glass of the windows cracking under the force of Raphael's tone of voice alone, the pressure of the room becoming thick and heavy. The Demon tries to not flinch.

“Do I make myself clear.” It was not a question.

Crowley leaned forwards slightly, determined not to come off as cornered as he felt, pride blazing in his eyes as he glared up at the archangel's vessel. “Crystal.” He affirmed back, voice smooth and tone unwavering.

Flaring his great unseen wings, the archangel launches himself out of the building, allowing the demon that one last shred of dignity in that bold comment as his departure pummels the rooms with a near gale.

The idea of using Purgatory had occurred the archangel once before already. The effort to secure extra souls in Heaven was an enormous undertaking and it would not take long before the opposing force of angels would have caught onto the archangel's plans. Despite all of the infighting, the souls of Heaven are not barter tools as they are in Hell, even descending into a civil war and chaos, angels of all kinds do not desecrate His main order of maintaining human souls. Not even the archangels. If only because of their pride.

The disfigured souls of Purgatory were another matter. Cast out from both Heaven and Hell, bound to a place of no real meaning or setting, The souls were potentially free game from an angel's point of view. Still harbouring the potential energy (if a little less potent) than a pure human soul, all of them collected together could in theory give enough power to rival that of even their Father.

However, the mechanics behind the lost place were mostly a mystery, even to the archangels. The Leviathans were the only creatures to have come before the angels, Purgatory was built before Raphael had even been born, and the dynamics behind opening it's doors without mindlessly releasing the entire occupants was a threat too much for the archangel to consider as viable.

But now _Gabriel_ is back.

If the younger archangel did decide to finally return to Heaven, there would be Hell to pay. His traitorous younger brother had aided those filthy humans and Castiel in re-closing the gates of Hell's cage, there was no forgiveness for an action such as that. The younger archangel had chosen death as his punishment the moment he first attempted to intervene and it was a befitting fate that Lucifer ended his annoying, disruptive life.

But Raphael was no fool. Gabriel had always been a nuisance, but he was also loyal to his own beliefs. If that traitor had agreed with Castiel and sided with the humans rather than allow Michael to kill Lucifer, then there was very little chance that Gabriel would then lay back and watch Heaven rip itself to pieces. He cared too much, even if he did hide it well.

It was annoying that Raphael felt a small sting of what he vaguely recognised as regret at having Castiel assassinated. If only because of a high level of self preservation, the youngest archangel had always had a soft spot for that abomination. To this day Raphael couldn't fathom why.

The threat of Gabriel returning was hanging over him, and no matter how much he searched for an alternative, the archangel simply couldn't discover an another way to break the seals on Lucifer's cage again. And, there's simply nothing in creation strong enough to break the cage door down. It's maddening and crushing and there is simply nothing else that Raphael can try that can potentially wipe out Castiel's army, Gabriel and break the cage.

Purgatory is Heaven's salvation, and Raphael knows it.

The Leviathan are what present the biggest issue. The scrolls in even Heaven's vast library are vague in mentioning anything about Purgatory or the powerful creatures that dwell within its hidden borders. However, what little there is, and that coupled with the few words his Father had ever spoken to the archangels regarding the sinful place, did not strike Raphael as all that intimidating.

The Leviathans were described as being immensely powerful, overcoming all of Purgatory's other dwellers with ease. But there was nothing explicit in the texts that suggests an Leviathan could overpower an archangel's control of it's vessel and crush the archangel itself.

The very idea feels absurd. What creature could possibly over power an archangel, except another archangel?

Ludicrous.

Resolve hardening, the archangel let any doubts of his power slip away. He will use Crowley and his sources to break open Purgatory, then kill him the second he ceases to be of any value.

He is the last of the loyal archangels. He will complete God's Will, he will force Leviathan to submit to his glory, he will crush the rebellion and destroy the cage.

And nothing is going to stand in his way of achieving that goal.

What he needs at the moment is something to distract the rest of the Heavenly Host, something to draw attention away from his new-found goal. He predicts the ritual is going to take some time before all of the necessary components are collected and the archangel requires room to manoeuvre. Something that will test the loyalty of his immense followers, something that will shake the resolve of the opposition, and shock the angels that remain uncertain and unwilling to choose a side into the battle. Something so monumental it will destroy even Gabriel's spirit. Something that will aid in ridding Heaven of all of the young angel's that are as potentially corrupted as Castiel had been...

And Raphael has just the plan. He considers it only for a moment, vaguely remembering a time when the very thought would have shaken him down to the Grace. Before that fleeting uncertainty falls away like a second skin and his Grace thrums with hungry power and excitement. His six great wings beat down, changing his destination, gathering all of his power and wrath to his centre, ready for one sweeping attack as he roars towards Heaven, one attack that will change everything.

Because things have to change to go back to the way they were before, there is no other way.

_I am God's Will, and I will do what I must to break this curse on Heaven._

Deep in the pit, the Devil laughs.


	14. And We All Fall Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And just when Dean thinks it can't get worse...

If someone asked Dean to come up with a single word term that best describes the atmosphere within Bobby Singer's library; A sarcastic _wonderful_ would be his only answer. Worse still, he doesn't get the impression that it's going to get any better any time soon.

It's late afternoon. The sun's just beginning to descend the sky and the July heat is still wafting in thickly through the windows on a faint sweet summer breeze. The pathetic amount of moving air feels somewhat like an elderly asthmatic man suffering from pneumonia breathing down a straw with several hole poked into it. Needless to say, there's no way to escape the stuffy humidity and the one rotating fan in front of Bobby's desk is not enough.

It's almost ironic that one of Dean's first thoughts this morning had been that at least it didn't feel like it was going to be another scorching hot day. In fact, the older Winchester had naively woken up utterly comfortably warm, the day still early enough that the heat was still beautifully cosy. He'd been planning on lounging in that cocoon of comfort for as long as possible, apocalypse restarting be damned. Christ knows he deserved it for not finishing the archangel off in his sleep.

Alas, it was not meant to be.

In his early morning sleepiness his eyes had blinked open, taking in the sudden unexpected sight of Castiel, still curled on his side. The fact that he was still asleep wasn't stunning given how wrecked he'd looked the night before, and it wouldn't have been a problem if he wasn't suddenly now close enough that there was barely two inches between them, the angel's soft breathing puffing air gently against his shoulder.

It took every fibre of Dean's self control not to scramble backwards as fast as he was physically capable, freaking giving a guy a heart attack even when asleep is messed up. It was just so fucking typical that even asleep Castiel didn't understand the prospect of personal space.

Then it hit Dean that Castiel hadn't _freaking moved._

The Seraph was still right where he had fallen asleep. Dean was the one that had shifted forwards as if drawn to the damn angel like some oversized teddy bear, the hunter internally grumbled; Sam was supposed to be the god damn night octopus. Not bad-ass Dean Winchester.

And boy did it only get better. It wasn't entirely true to say the angel hadn't moved at all. Much to Dean's annoyance, his right wing had half stretched outwards, leaving them both ensconced comfortably under a warm blanket of pitch black feathers. Dean would never know if the ass had woken in the night or if it was some freaky guardian angel instinct. He hoped with a severe intensity it was the latter, no matter how weird that was. Christ knows Dean can't bear the thought of the angel doing it intentionally, he's lost count of the amount of times he's told the Seraph not to watch the human when he's sleeping. The hunter doesn't give a crap how much of a _work of art_ humans are to the angel, this museum is fucking closed at night.

Still. It _was_ the most comfortable the hunter could recall being short of some Magic Finger lovin'. He didn't want to move damnit.

Dean had scowled and scowled and scowled some more.

Castiel, for his part, had been pretty oblivious. Eyelashes fanning his cheeks darkly, hair even more chaotic than usual, face lax and breathing even. And as much as Dean's pride rumbled in distress, the hunter didn't immediately leave their unintentional nest. The lines of pain and stress that had been plaguing Cas' face for at the past two weeks had faded and Dean nearly smirked -because there's no way it made him _smile_ \- at how much younger his vessel seemed without them. It sounded sappy even in Dean's own head, but just listening to the angel breathe properly again got the Winchester to stick around for a few minutes. It's part of the life, hunters almost always die on the job, most often bloody too. You get used to the risk, the chance of injuries, Dean hasn't been afraid of the possibility of dying on a case his whole life; why bother? It's not like that's going to change anything. Bad things happen to good people and all that. But as much as Dean knew this, he couldn't help listening anyway. The older Winchester knows he holds on too tightly to people that barge into his life and then won't leave when he tells them too. Bobby, Ellen, Joe. Cas. Sam's always been a given. If something ever tears one of them down, the hunter can't stop himself from just doing little things like this.

He hadn't been able to save Ellen and Joe. That will sit on his shoulders for the rest of his life.

Castiel almost died. And that's not okay, but he was right there; Dean could _hear_ him. Dean Winchester doesn't have much, and it's doing the stupid little things like this that tell him what he has left.

Then the wing piled over the Winchester's side had shifted in the dim morning light.

Dean tensed instantly, having been broken from his thoughts. The last thing the hunter wanted was for the angel to wake up right then, it's one thing for the Winchester to know he does this too much, quite another to let the asshole himself know it too. Grappling with himself, the hunter forced himself to relax and feign sleep, he hadn't got a clue how well that would work against angel vision, but Dean had damn well tried.

A tiny huffed yawn came from his back and Uzi stretched grandly, gently pushing against the dark feathers as she did so. Dean had forgotten the tiny chewing menace was on the bed too somewhere. The little creature settled again and presumably carried on dozing. The hunter held his breath. Castiel didn't stir.

Huffing in relief, the older Winchester went to turn and roll-over, this was a one sided chick moment and even that was too much for this hunter thank you very freakin' much. But something held him still, a little thought niggling at his brain, a half-assed raised flag asking for attention. It took a moment of silence, Dean concentrating on what was amiss for a few seconds, the only sound reaching his ears the soft sound of an angel breathing, before it struck him that that was what was off.

Against his own, Cas' rhythm was a little fast, just enough for Dean to notice. Shifting his arm out from under him, the hunter had carefully brushed cool fingers against the angel's forehead and rolled his eyes in vague annoyance that he was warmer again than he should be. Dean shook his head, when the hell had his life changed so much that he had learned what the normal damn temperature was for a friggin' angel of the Lord? He briefly remembered a time when some sick supernatural creature was an easy kill rather than a source of concern.

Back in the day, Dean wouldn't have hesitated to put a angelic blade through the angel's chest if someone had handed it took him and screamed for help. The supernatural world had always been hunter light versus messed up dark. Yeah, most of the supernatural world, angel's included, deserved whatever they got. Most of them are utter assholes. But these last years have been a bit of an occupational roller-coaster. Monsters will always be monsters, but he has, grudgingly, seen that not all of those otherworldly creatures _are_ monsters. Dean Winchester will never have his brother's empathy, but he's learned enough that John Winchester would be turning in his grave if they hadn't had the man salted and burned. Cas was no one's easy kill, not while Dean was still breathing.

It had taken a few minutes to escape the wing confinement without waking this particular creature, because for all that Dean's ready to fight to the death to protect the bastard, Dean'll sooner die than be caught cuddling up to the damn idiot. It's clear after a moment or two of checking the heat of the angel's skin again and the state of his injured wing that it's only a mild fever. No doubt stirred up from the strain on his Grace from zapping everywhere yesterday and Gabriel's SOS with the volume whacked up to full. He was fine.

After a generous amount of sighing in annoyance -it's not like he was relieved or anything- he went about setting up one of Bobby's two fans by the door. The morning sky was brightening and clear of all cloud cover and years of experience let Dean know it was going to get rather warm.

Dean'd been doubtful it'd even be needed. Knowing Castiel, the angel would be up and stalking before they even needed to turn the fan on.

Nope.

As far as Dean knew – and he did, he'd only just come back downstairs again- the winged idiot was still sleeping under the blissful effects of a cool breeze. The rest of them aren't quite so happy, all stuffed into the library like aggrieved sardines. To make things even more unnecessarily uncomfortable, the damn AC is broken.

Even Uzziel looks low, panting against Sam's leg who's sprawling across on the floor, leaning up against Gabriel's claimed couch. The younger hunter shifts every few minutes against the uncomfortable muggy heat clinging to his skin, he's even taken his over-shirt off. Bobby, being the weird, calm, grouchy man that he can't help being; seems utterly at peace with the heat. The ass isn't even sweating behind that stupid desk of his with his nose in a book older than the whole damn town.

Everything about him makes Dean glower. He's never coped well with heat. Cold is something that rarely bothers him, and when it does he can usually grit his teeth and bare it, sometimes even amicably. But he's always hated being too hot, humidity plaguing your every move and God forbid you have to go into town or a bar during the hottest hours of the day where everyone is hot and sticky and just generally gross. And that has nothing on Alastair’s old game of _Let's See How Much of Dean I Can Burn Before He Screams._

Yeah, fuck heat.

Uzi whines quietly at Sam's fidgeting, he spares her a single, distracted, eye-bulging stroke, before turning a page of another old book. At least Dean isn't the only one who just wants it to get dark and cool again. Sam handles the cold better than his older brother does, but he seems to have been gifted the same pathetic level of heat tolerance. That kinda makes the older hunter feel a little better.

There's not exactly much for them to do. With Castiel temporarily out of action – he's usually the one with the clue about what the hell's going on when it concerns Heaven – and Gabriel down for the count, all they can do was do the same thing they had before the archangel arrived. Research.

Great, heat _and_ research, what a great fucking day.

Naturally, Dean's mood isn't super, and the tension in the room isn't helping. His little sister keeps glaring at him any time Dean starts talking about anything that isn't what the giant nerd considers useful, shooting meaningful looks at the comatose creature as if Sam thinks that Dean actually cares whether or not he wakes the archangel. Not that he can, because the idiot is _comatose_. Bobby doesn't seem to care either way, seemingly immune to the heat, tension and Sam's many different intensities of _The Bitch Face_. It's an art form that the old hunter has perfected in his elderly years.

The older Winchester still isn't at peace with having the murderous creature in the house at all. He may not recall the mystery spot incident, but grudges still hold. Unfortunately, the only thing worse than Sam's bitch face is his damn puppy eyes, and the only thing worse than Sam's puppy eyes are fucking _Castiel's_ puppy eyes. Dean still isn't sure if he should deck Sam for that little piece of unhelpful tutelage. All in all, the older Winchester has the feeling that if he demanded the archangel leave there would be a small riot amongst Team Free Will-plus-one-mutt. There's no question of who'd win that argument.

Grumbling under his breath about the stupidity of younger siblings (both angelic or otherwise) and general dickishness of God, Dean turns his own page with quiet venom and carries on reading.

Another hour drags itself passed, another age of finding absolutely nothing helpful. Dean had long since given up the copies of the _Revelation of Saint John_ , he never was any good at translating too long all in one go, especially Greek, that was Sam's department. Instead he'd spied a tome on angels that Bobby had already translated the majority of, little tack notes often scribbled into corners or between the lines of the book which now bares a distinctive whiskey stain on the third yellowed page. He knows Bobby's already scoured through it looking for anything useful regarding any or all of their current problems, and came up empty, but Cas flashing his wings and letting the _fledgling_ comment slip had piqued his curiosity. Hell, Dean might as well look up something interesting if he has to be subjected to these stupid book club sessions. He hasn't read anything specific regarding Seraphs since before Castiel had rebelled in earnest, and at that point, they had been looking for alternative ways to kill douches like Zachariah, and Cas had still been a Power.

He's barely even turned the fifth page he's skimming over, eyebrows raised as he takes in the six wings remark next to a weird black and white stained glass depiction of one of the Seraphim; Dean nearly gives himself a hernia trying not to belt out laughing and give the game away, when a muffled moan came from Sam's direction.

Glaring over the top of the book, the previously comatose archangel was stirring. Dean clutches at Castiel's angel blade. He spots Bobby less than subtly snatch up Gabriel's sword and drop his hand behind his desk and out of the supernatural being's potential sight. Sam, Dean was grateful to notice, seems just as wary, his brother might have wanted to let the bastard have a chance to rest, but that light in Sam's eyes is _far_ from forgiveness.

The angel's vessel tenses as consciousness returns, the creature very obviously swallowing a groan behind gritted teeth and scrunched eyes. Sam gingerly reaches out to the archangel's partly bandaged shoulder, hoping to draw his attention without alarming him.

“...Gabriel?”

His fingertips barely brush skin before those powerful amber eyes snap open, their gaze bleary and pupils blown-wide and dazed. Instinct seems to hit the archangel's mind first and the way his shoulders twitch up minutely reminds Dean of when Castiel flares his wings before flight. The older Winchester jumps to his feet, book hitting the floor as he realises that's _exactly_ what the archangel is doing. He opens his mouth to bark out a warning, less out of concern about the moron hurting himself and more out of self preservation that Dean doesn't think the house can take what might happen if the angel finds out the hard way he's not exactly flight worthy.

Gabriel seems to realise it faster, pain from the small movement visibly _slamming_ into his senses like an anvil, all three hunter's cringe at the sharp reverberating screech that escapes the archangel's throat, Uzi shakes in terror, fleeing the room and stumbling up the stairs. The deafening sound tapers off almost as quickly as it starts, and it takes Dean a few pounding seconds to notice Sam is talking; mumbling jumbled strings of words to the archangel that the older hunter's ears are ringing too loudly to make out.

If anything, the recognition flooding into those golden eyes makes Dean's stomach drop like a rock. Distrust, wariness and an intense level of caution fills that disorientated gaze to the brim; those old eyes zero in on Dean's borrowed weapon and the caution leaps to instinctive defence. His weakened vessel seems to betray him, struggling even to sit up and away from Sam as Dean and Bobby wisely stay where they are. Sam has his hands up in the few seconds all of this happened, but his worried step forwards pushes the panicked and dazedly confused archangel too far. All three hunters freeze into stone as Gabriel's hand snaps up in Sam's direction; wind suddenly batters the outside of the old house, forcing the shutters to slam and the doors all blow shut. It comes howling in through all of the windows, blowing Bobby's carefully organised yard papers everywhere in a sudden cacophony of noise and flying paper-cut weaponry.

The wind only gets worse, and though Dean doesn't dare move, he can't help calling out to his brother. _“Sam!”_ Lightning and rain are lashing down noisily around the house, the change from hot day to black storm happening near instantaneously. The simple gesture seems harmless, but the gasping archangel has shut his eyes to them, either from exhaustion or pain Dean can't tell, but there's such a powerful _threat_ behind that raised hand. The archangel is desperately weak, but even in the typhoon of sound and wind, the hunter later swears nothing was as loud in that moment as his heartbeat pounding against his chest.

The softest brush of something against his arm breaks the hunter's concentration. Castiel moves like an impossible sphere of calm in the chaotic library, the ebony wings still managing to ooze serenity and grace even when one wing looks like it's losing a fight with an army of small white fabric strips. The Seraph reaches his brother mere instants later, grasping the archangel's outstretched wrist gently as his wings rise up around the both of them, denying the three hunters the majority of seeing what was going on. The gentle rumble of that gravelly voice reaches Dean's ears regardless of the small hurricane and ringing ears, it takes some moments of confusion to figure out it's Enochian punctuating the air like a physical thing.

There are a few more harrowing seconds of severely uneasy tension before the hurricane seems to degrade into a tornado of noise, before quieting down even further. A few warm beams began peaking in through the windows again, the rays igniting Castiel's black wings with unearthly golds and blues between the white contrasting stripes.

The storm breaks in earnest. Dean absently feels sorry for the poor weather forecaster that's just been fired.

It's not until Castiel peaks over his shoulder past his wing at Dean and holds out his hand, glancing pointedly at his angel blade, that the hunter even notices his hands are shaking. Indulging a moment to force out a longer breath, he pads two grumbling steps to give the angel his weapon back. The Seraph repeats the action at Bobby, who understandably, is far more reluctant to give over his fancy new toy. Castiel's blade might have been able to injure and perhaps even kill the weakened archangel; but Gabriel's could do it definitely, and after that unnerving display they're all a little uneasy to hand the supernatural being it's only weakness. Castiel's usually serious expression turns fiercely stern with the hesitation, and Dean's a little surprised to recognise the expression as one he usually sees on Sam whenever Dean's managed to get injured and someone else is getting in the way. It's a younger sibling's glare, a _don't you dare argue with me when it comes to my older brother_ demand. Bobby seems to recognises the stubborn irritability in the angel, because he acquiesces quickly with a roll of the eyes. It's Old Grouch code for _Well, it's your funeral._

Grasping the weapon, Castiel disappears almost entirely again behind those huge ebony limbs for a few moments, Dean always forgets how big the damn things are until they're in the way of something, before they retract back into their usual position laxly against his back. The younger angel murmurs a few more words of Enochian quietly, the alarm and confusion have faded a great deal from Gabriel's eyes, he's still huffing a little, trying not to slouch in exhaustion and regathering his rather bruised pride. He has his left hand wrapped around his sword so tightly his knuckles have turned white, but having the weapon seems to have done what Sam touching his shoulder couldn't.

Gabriel's still dazed eyes then settle on Castiel, and the first thing he says in not what Dean thought it might be. “ _D-Damn,_ little Bro. You look terrible.” His voice sounds raw, thick and quiet with disuse and pain. The hunter recalls digging his way through a grave, being so thirsty he thought his throat must be cracked and bleeding.

Dean decides not to care. It's just easier that way.

Sam materialises at Castiel's side with a glass full of water, almost distracting the older Winchester from the way the younger angel _subconsciously_ tucks his wings into his sides as much as possible. Huh. “You look worse, I assure you.” Castiel drawls, but body language suggests he thinks otherwise. Dean mentally bookmarks that comment for later.

Gabriel peers up at Sam and his offering with a momentary flash of caution back in his eyes, it's bizarre because it's fucking _Gabriel_ and that asshole has never looked so vulnerable about anything before, but he finally, shakily, takes it. If anyone else sees the reassurance seeking glance at Castiel before he drinks it, no one comments on it. Then the amber turns hard and dangerous, glancing up from where he's half propped up by the arm of the couch at the bandages adorning the Seraphs wing. “Seriously, Castiel. What even did _that?_ Hell-hound? Chainsaw?” Dean's heard that tone of voice come out of his own mouth enough times to know just how lucky that bastard Zephon is to be dead.

Castiel hesitates, sighing lightly and Dean comes up to his side because he has a sneaking suspicion the winged idiot is still feverish. He is, Dean can see the light flush under the sunlight now blazing in through the window behind the couch. Castiel sets his shoulders, eyes turning piercing again and Dean can tell he's thinking of dismissing the topic. The angel seems to think better of it, catching Dean's eye and holding it in that soul stare until Dean can't bare it and moves away to pick up his discarded book. “...Zephon.” He admits. He sounds like he's having his teeth pulled to say it.

The surprise in the archangel's eyes is thick and whole. “Zephon? Why?"

Castiel drags over Dean's discarded chair and sinks down into it tiredly. The Winchester might be a little pissed off that the rest of the lowly humans in the rooms are being ignored, but Gabriel isn't exactly someone Dean thinks he could lead on for very long without the archangel catching a slip up. He'd much rather Castiel just come out and say it now, than have a pissed off archangel that's had some time to regather himself fin out they've been lying by omission. “Raphael ordered my assassination.” The Seraph starts, Gabriel still looks surprised, but an anxious gleam is settling into his eyes. Something that can make _Castiel_ wary of admitting is never a good thing to see. “Just as he ordered yours.”

Sam shuffles up to Dean's side and the older hunter can't help rolling his eyes as Samantha motions to the sliding door to the kitchen, flapping his freakishly large hand until the hunter sighs and moves.

Gabriel's face has gained a raw vulnerability that is startlingly similar to the one he'd worn when he'd confessed to Dean he _couldn't_ kill his family. It reminds the older Winchester of that agonising moment on some road to nowhere, telling Sam their father's last words to him were that he might have to kill his baby brother. Dean follows Sam with little problem after that. Yeah, Dean wouldn't have wanted anyone else around then either.

Less than ten minutes later, Castiel pulls open the sliding door; rolling it closed again he joins the trio at the table, twisting a chair around effortlessly to straddle and drops down beside Sam. He looks wrecked, and accepts the tumbler of whiskey pushed his way almost eagerly. Dean narrows his eyes and picks up the whiskey bottle, a jagged, haunting memory of another future time and another tired, abandoned soldier flicking before his mind's eye.

“Sounded like he took it pretty well.” Bobby mutters dryly, downing his own glass, still slightly sore that he'd been silently kicked out of his own library, or what was left of it. The eldest hunter scowled again, why can't angels just show up and talk and freak out like normal folks? Why do they always have to make a mess of Bobby's goddamn house?

Truthfully, they couldn't hear anything besides a faint tone of voice through the door, but there hadn't been the shouting match Dean had been half expecting. There could have been some mojo at work though, for all the humans know.

Castiel shakes his head, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as if fighting off a migraine. “That's because he doesn't know everything yet.”

Sam tenses at the angel's side, he's been pushing his unopened beer between his hands for ages. “Uh...Cas, not to interfere...but secrets really aren't going to help.” Dean's somewhat glad Sam voiced that before he could, because that's one hell of a glare Sam's getting even for Castiel, no matter how bang on the younger Winchester is.

“He's right, Feathers.” Bobby interjects.

Castiel shakes his head again. “No.” He starts firmly in his _you aren't understanding and it's irritating_ tone of voice. “He's exhausted. He gave into sleep long before I could finish. I suspect I'll spend a time repeating what I just explained again later, he is aware that Raphael is trying to seize power, and that Lucifer and Michael are caged, but he doesn’t know the extent of my...involvement in the war, yet.”

“Don't do that, Cas.” Dean's seen that doubtful look far too many times since the start of this stupid fight began. “You're doing the right thing.”

The Seraph's posture drops, wings hanging low from his shoulders. He spends the next few minutes staring into the amber liquid contained in his glass. “He will not see it that way.”

Not for the first time since Stull Cemetery, Dean wonders if they really stopped anything at all.

–

Naturally, when Gabriel finally wakes up again several hours later, Castiel isn't in the room. Because life is fun that way.

There's no sudden startled freak out like the first time, just one minute Dean is accusing his brother of swallowing a Disney movie for giving Uzi the whole baby voice spiel, the next the groggy archangel is interrupting them flatly. “Well boys, credit where it's due. I gotta admit I didn't expect you mutton-heads would actually do it.“

The guy looks a mess, straining to sit up against the arm of the couch and failing miserably to make it look like it doesn't hurt like a bitch. There are bandages swaddled around his chest that cross up and over his right shoulder, smaller patches of gauze and butterfly tape littering his arms, neck and face. The throw blanket off of the back of the couch is pooling around the archangel's hips and it tangles around his jeans as he carefully swings his legs down. The amber of his eyes are dull with exhaustion within their bruised hollows, his breathing is carefully shallow and all of his movements are controlled and small. A muscle in his jaw jumps when he sluggishly rakes his dishevelled hair from his eyes.

It screams fuck this hurts. Part of Dean almost feels sorry, but mostly he has a swelling feeling that can only be summed up as well, good. Asshole.

“Join the club” Dean snorts, taking a long pull from his beer and wondering where that damn Seraph has wandered off to, this idiot looks like he's seriously debating standing and Dean would rather maintain his countenance of not caring if he can help it. Because, despite being (probably unreasonably) satisfied that the pretentious dick understands that yeah, being reduced to a state like the rest of us puny humans can hurt like hell, Dean's not cruel either. That and he's not going to put up with the irritated scowling Castiel will likely send his way later if he laughs as the archangel pummels the floor with his face a few times. Well, weighing up the pros and cons...If the tables were turned....

Gabriel's lucky Dean's such a stellar human being.

Sam steps forward from his seat when it's clear Dean's still torn between watching the archangel make an idiot out of himself or telling him to lay-the-fuck-back-down. The new proximity to the archangel makes those amber eyes dart instinctively to his sword, wedged between his thigh and the couch cushion, but he also stays himself from moving anymore.

“Where's Grandpa?” The archangel asks instead, sweeping the cluttered library with his eyes. His hurricane earlier had made the room considerably more crappy than before. The instinctual caution the archangel's been hoarding seems to bleeding into a curious intent. Dean's about eighty percent certain it's a forced calm.

“Shutting up shop” The older Winchester dismisses, the hunter's not actually sure where Bobby is, probably still in the work shop, or hopefully fixing the damn water heater, but Dean's not in the habit of letting something like that slip to something he doesn't really trust. “But, the real question is, why are you strolling around again exactly? Don't get me wrong, I dug your style at times, but Luci shiv'd you good, man.” The even tone of his voice is borderline sarcasm, but Dean is wary and on edge, pissing the archangel off is the only way the hunter's ever found that gets a clear answer out of him. It's harsh to slam the injured creature with his brother's betrayal, but Dean needs information and he doesn't like the creature enough to get it gently.

Gabriel's eyes go cold at the same time that Sam broadcasts his F5 Scale _Dean_ Bitch face, and he's not seen than one since a startled Castiel slammed him into that motel room wall for touching his wing without permission.

They'd never gone back to the _Elysian_ , but there was no mistaking that blinding explosive light in the rear view mirror. Kali blazing away in an anguished scream of fire almost immediately after was another unmistakable hint at what had gone down. Gabriel had died in that white blaze, and sure the Winchesters have a habit of bouncing back from the impossible, but archangels?

The injured creature _stares_ at the older Winchester, Dean wonders bitterly if that's a trait all angels possess or just the two currently taking shelter under this roof. It's different from Castiel's peering blue where Dean can almost _feel_ those old eyes reaching under every defence he has to see down to the depth of his soul. Now, the little hairs on the back of his neck prickle, an instinctual cold shiver racing down his spine and encouraging his heart into a faster rhythm. It only lasts a moment, Gabriel clamping down hard on whatever that steel in his eyes was. Come to think of it, they've never really seen Gabriel wrathful. The hunter frowns; Castiel is terrifying enough, thank you. “You're guess is as good as mine, Deano. Guess Dad missed my jokes.” The angel snorts, wincing for the movement.

Sam leans against the bookcase at his back and Dean can see the nerd light ignite in his eyes as he turns over everything in his mind. “What happened though? Cas just dropped here, we barely had time to hitch a ride.”

'Moron's paying for that now.' Dean thinks flatly. Honestly, is it too much to ask to have one day without the Seraph collapsing from something or other?

The archangel gives a light shrug, wincing heavily as abused muscles pull against gashes underneath the white fabric. He picks at it absently. “Didn't I tell you boys this yesterday? Well, guess Dad has his own sense of humour. Something about humility probably, always was a stickler for it, whatever. All I know is, I wake up in this ass-crack dump, Grace so blended I still don't know when the hell I am, then freakin' demons are everywhere. Killed a good couple, but I guess I'm not as young as I used to be.”

His voice is off-handed, humoured and light. It's so painfully put-on that both Winchester brothers don't even mention it; being caught and taking a beating that's marching it's way to torture is something they're both familiar with, there's some shit that not even Dean'll pick at.

The archangel gave a very careful shrug. “Gotta say, don't remember much after getting dragged out that death-trap building, Cassie wasn't exactly clear on the details.”

Dean shrugs, slouching in his chair. There's the soft noise of an upstairs door closing, and Castiel pads his way down the stairs so quietly Dean can't help but liken the idiot to a cat. Gulping back his beer, the Winchester merely flaps his hand at the archangel. “Hey, we showed up, kicked ass, left again. It's July 14th 2009 by the way; you were dead like, what? Four months.” It's fucked up how that doesn't even sound bizarre anymore.

Gabriel whistles, the Winchesters can't tell if it's at the date or the dishevelled, tired looking Seraph that's taken to standing beside Dean's chair. “What's with the all the showing off, baby bro? Not that it's not good to see you out of that monkey-suit.”

Castiel levels his older brother a hard, unamused stare. It's his _I don't appreciate your condescending humour_ stare, and yeah, Dean gets that one a lot. _“Witch_.” He damn near spits the word, Dean raises his eyebrows that the angel is still so pissed about it. He has a right to be sure, but the hunter never pegged this particular angel as one to hold a grudge.

The archangel huffs a laugh, flinching immediately afterwards and rubbing his palm tentatively over the deepest slash on his chest. “That must've been one tough chick, Cassie. Not to grind it in your gears, but you got four more wings since the last time I saw you, and you _still_ let a witch manifest your centrals?”

Castiel scowls, there's a slight flush up his neck that he can't hide.

“Four more?” Dean blurts out in confusion, sure that book had mentioned six, but the human can clearly only see two. They all get mashed into two or what?

The seraph really doesn't look pleased to answer, his lips a tight line before he speaks thinly. “Only archangels have and use six full sized wings for flight, Dean. It's complicated, the mechanics of manifestation vary significantly depending on an angel's type, power, intensity of-”

“-I get it, Cas!” Dean butts in quickly, he didn't sign up for what sounds to be a lengthy lecture on quantum physics and multi-wavelength intent. Sam looks disappointed on his stolen nerd moment, Gabriel's grinning like a moron. “It's complicated, fine. That doesn't explain why _Loki_ here is currently weak as a kitten.” It's an equal stab on Cas' behalf as it is on Dean's.

“Careful, Deano. I'm not that harmless” The archangel smiles as he says it, but his eyes warn him off the Pagan topic.

Castiel rolls his eyes, apparently having enough of his bickering charge and brother. “Gabriel, your Grace is _shattered._ I've stabilised it as much as I can, but it will be a long recovery.” He doesn't tell Dean to stop, merely glares at him hard enough that the hunter raises his hands in surrender. Doesn't wipe the smirk off his face though.

Sighing, the archangel slouches gingerly back against the couch cushions. His right hand rises to snap up a little comfort food and his expression sours tremendously as he catches himself; dropping his hand back down with a rather exaggerated eye roll, the lack of sugar seems to be the last straw. “Congrats on that, Castiel.” He snaps sarcastically. “I hadn't noticed.”

Something about the glare the older angel shoots at Castiel has Dean's blood pressure suddenly building. Castiel is an angel, and even after going through the meat grinder at least twice in give-or-take two weeks, the seraph could still hand Dean's ass to him in a fight complete with decorative ribbon and a consolation card. They may not have brought it up, but Falling over the past year had been hell on Castiel, and suddenly injured again from both Zephon _and_ Ithuriel had shovelled the whole memory of the ordeal back onto the Seraph's shoulders. Because, you know, fighting a war wasn't stressful enough, and then there's the draining himself dry helping the archangel. That patronising bite from the angel's older brother rakes nastily against Dean's older sibling instinct, he's still pissed that even injured Castiel had decided to go help the archangel in the first place, and the underlying irritation destroys the filter to his mouth.

“Hey! If it weren't for Cas you'd strapped on a rack in Hell right now, and trust me, I know how much fun that is.” He growls, slamming his beer bottle down onto Bobby's desk with way more force than he intended. “Now, we got a war raging on upstairs with _Let's Throw an Archangel Reunion Party in Hell_ it's main goal and _The Apocalypse_ as the buffet course. So, here's the low down, everyone thinks Cas is dead and everyone on Team Dick wants you dead. Now, Cas is stuck down here and his Team's struck out without him, so you can either help us clean up your damn family's mess or fuck off!”

Gabriel sneers darkly at him, Castiel stiffens beside him.

Anger bubbles up into the archangel's gaze, his shoulders tensing and fingers folding into fists. He pauses suddenly, as if something has snapped into place, those eyes dart over to Castiel accusingly, narrowing into stony slits. “ _Your side_?” Castiel grimaces, and the archangel's sits forwards threateningly. “What war, Castiel? You said Raphael was attempting to seize control, nothing about a war!”

The seraph tenses in response, wings subconsciously drawing tighter to his sides as the atmosphere in the room thickens so much even Dean shifts awkwardly. The hunter hadn't intended to blow Castiel's little omission into Gabriel's face, but the Winchester suddenly gets why the angel had been nervous about coming clean. Christ knows he didn't need Gabriel glowering at him like that.

“Raphael _is_ trying to take control.” The blue of Castiel's gaze hardens into ice. The room feels charged, Dean can practically taste a fight in the air. “I was not expecting him to command a way to be found for the cage to be broken; when I confronted him about it, he attacked me.” Gabriel's expression had fallen hard and angry, but he said nothing as Castiel continued; his gravelly tone becomes more and more angered as it always does whenever anyone brings up Raphael. “He declared Heaven his and restarting the Apocalypse the Host's only goal. He even let me live as an example of _“Punished disobedience_ ”. Many of us refused to obey, God's silence has been weighing on us for millennia too, Gabriel, not just you. Several believe that God's Will cannot be over turned, if the Apocalypse was halted then it was not meant to _be_. Fighting broke out everywhere.”

Eyes dark, the archangel stared blackly at all of them. “The whole point of your damn plan was to stop the fighting!”

Castiel squared his shoulders, wings tensing and his chin rising in that way that pulls up memories of an alley beating and sends them rushing to the forefront of Dean's mind. “The other angels have as much right to their own decisions as you do your own. They may not grasp the concept of Free Will, but many of us don't want to watch Michael kill Lucifer anymore than you do!” It's a harsh blow and the archangel stands stiffly at the words.

“That's no excuse for starting your own war!”

The seraph glares down at his brother coldly. “What would you of had me do? Let Raphael torch the planet in his pointless escapade? Watch everything I fought for over the last year be lost?” His eyes flicker in the Winchesters direction, by the time they return to Gabriel, Dean gets the empty impression that he should have said something. “It was fight back or return to the way it was before.”

The archangel went still, he was tense, shoulder's hunched over at just the pain of standing, Sam is eyeing him carefully because frankly they're all impressed the midget is still upright. Then the amber turns stricken, eyes glancing up as if through the ceiling and into the stars above the house, quiet fury is in that gaze as it burns back down into Castiel's blue. “When was the last time you sensed how many angels are left, Castiel?” His tone is iron.

Castiel blinks as if he's been physically struck. Whatever he'd been expecting Gabriel to say, that was clearly far from it. Something like dread falls across his face, wings curling forwards around him in a faint echo of the way Dean now recognises is instinctual defence. It's by far the most emotion Dean's seen on the stoic creature for a long time, he sees every word strike something vulnerable in the angel's eyes with a savage intensity and glares at the older angel. He never thought he'd ever see Castiel shy away from something so simple.

It's taken like the admission it is. Gabriel laughs, it's a cold, sharp sound. He winces with it, but it doesn't stop the black anger in his eyes from burning into the other celestial creature. “How _dare_ you, Castiel.” It's pure blame if Dean ever saw it.

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, the words catch in his throat and in the half moment it takes to blink a harsh breeze fills the room, accompanied by the familiar sound of flight.

Dean barely has a breath to mutter _“Idiot_ ” before there's a quiet thump from out back. The hunter is almost grateful that Castiel hadn't gotten any further. Then he rounds on the archangel, glad to see Sam looks equally annoyed. “Dude!”

“Don't test me, Dean” The archangel snarls, his mood is as dark as his eyes and for once the hunter doesn't give a rat's ass where that Heavenly wrath gets aimed.

“No! Screw you, man. You don't get to disappear for months then come back shooting blame.” Snarling, Dean would have fisted the archangel's shirt if his little brother hadn't cut it off him. “We _all_ screwed up, _fuck man_ we started this stupid Apocalypse in the first place. But we worked our asses off. We took out the horsemen, hell, Cas took out Pestilence after being comatose for several days and hitching a bus. I had to be freakin' Death for a day! _Sam went to Hell!_ I watched your colossal dick of an older brother snap Bobby's neck and rip Cas apart. But we did it, we fixed the world after your brothers tried to burn it!” Dean's hands are shaking and he closes them into hard fists as he stomps over to the door, he doesn't give a damn about the celestial bitch face burning into his spine.

Pausing in the doorway, the hunter fixes the archangel with a severe stare. “Cas has been trying to sort out your damn family since day freakin' one, yeah it's all fucked up. But you don't get to throw that weight on him because he's doing what you were too damn afraid to do! I thought you were supposed to be the older brother!” He storms from the study the instant he's finished and stamps his way out the back, kicking the dust under his boots and eyes absently scanning the darkness for the Seraph.

Stalking past the Impala, the blaze of indignant rage behind his eyes settles a little in the warm night air, and he takes a deeper breath. The warmth fills his lungs, somewhat soothing away his ire. He hadn't intended to blow up; something about having someone to scream at for the injustice at having the Apocalypse potentially restart after so much crap trying to put it right, seemed to open the flood gates.

Dean spots Castiel by accident a few minutes later. The silver starlight hitting the iridescence of his wings draws the hunter in like a moth to flame through the darkness. He's perched himself on top of the cab of an old truck that's piled on top of two other cars. Dean has no freaking idea how he got up there. The wings are slack from his shoulders behind him, gaze turned to the stars and Dean can tell just from the hunch of his silhouette that he's turning over Gabriel's accusation in his mind.

He sees the exact moment the angel reaches out to the Host, sensing the state of his remaining family. Dean doesn't understand exactly what he does, but there is a terrible shake that hits the Seraph's shoulders an instant later. The only sound the angel makes is a soft, defeated sigh.

Gritting his teeth, the hunter begins clambering up Wreckage Mountain, scrambling up until he reaches the peak and slumps heavily down beside the eerily quiet angel. “I thought I told you not to fly off on that wing, man.” He berates angrily, because he'd come up here to know if the idiot had hurt himself and now he realises he doesn't actually know what to say. The angel has been pouring Grace into that unconscious bastard almost non-stop all day. It needed to be done, apparently anyway, and the Seraph had been of the opinion that it was better to drain himself to exhaustion in one go and be vulnerable for only a few days, rather than be half-drained for the next two weeks. The hunter hadn't agreed but the stubborn idiot wouldn't be moved. Dean's surprised he's conscious.

Castiel gives an irritated huff and curls his left wing around with a wince, Dean has perched himself right in the way of letting the angel inspect it himself so Dean glances to his left and does it instead. He can't freakin' see anything in the dark sea of feathers in the dim light, but he can't feel any blood either.

Sliding his palms against the widest strip of gauze, the hunter sighs tiredly. “Your brother's a dick, man.”

Silence.

The Seraph's eyes turn skyward again. “I warned you he would take it poorly.”

Snorting, Dean slid down the trucks' roof to the hood and leant back against the windshield. “Poorly doesn't begin to cover that, Cas.”

Castiel regards the hunter for a quiet moment, before carefully joining the hunter on the hood. Again, Dean is in the way of the left wing, and he suffers through sitting up with a long-winded sigh. It wasn't a planned move, but Castiel lets his wing fall slack along the windshield and Dean leans against the warm wall without thought, he's too close to the angel to be irritating the remaining wounds near the end of his wing and the pair settle more comfortably. It doesn't seem like that long ago the angel wouldn't let Dean anywhere near them.

The silence that falls isn't uncomfortable, but it's certainly not calm either.

“...I've been avoiding examining the damage done to our numbers since we first breached Hell to let the Righteous Man rise again.” The low gravel of the angel's voice is tinged with regret and Dean keeps his silence. “We do not die, Dean. We are only ever _killed_. It'd been a long time since any of our own had been lost, and I didn't like to entertain the idea of knowing how many fell... Heaven's corruption over these past years made it worse.” A beat. A pause. “I had thought about it...Gabriel was right, so many of us have died in this war.”

Dean sighed laboriously, aware the motion had the angel's eyes narrowing through the dark. Castiel hates being patronised. “Gabriel's a douche, Cas. You can't shoulder the blame for this, man. It'll kill you.” Castiel sucked in a breath, no doubt to complain, but Dean raises his hand to shut him up. “We've all done stupid shit, if Gabriel wants to play the blame game, me and Sam should've been his first stop.”

Castiel tilts his head tiredly, remembering a different argument in warehouse and a ring of holy fire. “...It was his first stop, Dean.”

The hunter rolls his eyes and glares hard at the Seraph through the dim light. “Shut up, man. You're doing this to stop Raphael torching everything, isn't the greatest sin apathy or some crap like that?”

His words give the angel pause, and the bluntness in the hunter's tone sparks a small half-smile in the Seraph. “Indeed.”

The new pause is easy going compared to the last, some of the tension bleeding out of Castiel and Dean can feel the hard muscles against the back of his neck soften. It's a good weird. The hunter almost feels a little sorry for Sammy, stuck in Bobby's study with a pissy archangel having a temper tantrum. He'd heard Bobby's heavy boots leading back into the house a few moments before so at least the older hunter may have grumbled the uneasiness out of them; Bobby doesn't have time for other people's sob stories, not for those that've messed up his obsessive book collection with a mild hurricane.

There's no way Dean's going back in that room yet. He lets his head lull to the side to catch the Impala in his eye line, looking past the long serrated pinions at his left. The dust from the heat has dulled her paint job and a little TLC is overdue. _Treat her right and she'll take care of you._ The closest thing to a religious belief that Dean Winchester would ever live by.

He's in the middle of debating how long moving her would take, and if the light from the work shop would be enough to see by (the damn thing's been on the fritz lately), when Castiel inhales sharply. It drives every single one of Dean's _Oh Shit_ instincts off the scale; it's a good thing too because Cas would have batted him off the hood with his wing if Dean hadn't sat up fast enough. The seraph is on his feet in a blink, eyes blazing up at the stars, tense and face hard. It's his _My Spidey Senses Are Off The Fucking Charts, Shit's About To Hit The Fan stare_ , or as close to it as Castiel can get. Dean's heart plummets to his boots. He has no weapon and Castiel has about as much mojo left as an elderly chihuahua.

The hunter doesn't even have time to voice the obvious question when a _sound_ batters everything like a shockwave. Dust explodes upwards with the force, and Dean thinks that could be thunder splitting the sky under all of the sudden angelic _screeching_ and bellowing wind. The windshield behind Dean shatters, little shards of glass raining down against his leather jacket and nicking his hands that are clamped over his abused ears. The noise only gets worse as every single pane of glass on at least this side of the lot and house shatters. The tinkling noise of glass ricocheting is lost in the cacophony. Dean's heard Castiel's angelic scream more than enough times to know that at least the Seraph isn't doing this. The angelic _roar_ shuts off like it's been controlled by a damn light switch, but the wind makes his eyes tear up and the dust has him coughing like crazy old forty-a-day chain smoker.

The small tinkering creak of metal settling around the lot slowly makes itself heard as the wind _finally_ slows from _Gale Force_ to _Too Damn Windy_. It's fucking ironic that Dean's been wishing for a cool breeze all day and now he's shivering and half deaf. He still can't see shit, but he doesn't need his eyes to know his angel is about to attempt something really damn stupid. The old rusty hood beneath him buckles downwards as if something is putting extra pressure on it. A new torrent of wind beats across his shoulders and though the sound is lost in the howling wind and ringing of his ears, the truck jerks hard as the angel takes flight.

The Winchester doubts he'll get a hundred feet up before practically passing out.

The angel doesn't break fifty.

–

Sam tentatively peels his hands from his ears, bells clanging noisily against his skull as tiny slivers of shattered glass fall away from his hair and creases of his shirt. The pain is intense, leaving him dazed and reaching for the nearest potential weapon. His hand blindly falls on an old tome, worn leather brushing against his palm as he draws it to himself and brandishes it before him. It's a pretty pathetic defence, but it fills the instinctual itch to clasp his conditioned fingers around _something._ He doesn't imagine being book slapped would do all that much supernatural damage, but at least it'd be satisfying to feel.

Cracking his eyes open, the room is dark, dust swirling circular patterns in the few, faint beams of starlight falling in through the gaping empty window panes. It's so thick it claws at his lungs and the younger Winchester has to indulge in two heavy coughs before he can regain his footing.

The after-echo of the booming squeal is slowly losing it's savage intensity in his ears, and he can now just about hear Bobby swearing like he's going for a world record somewhere in the kitchen. The dust doesn't settle, the heavy gusts of wind whipping around outside has it flowing erratically like a liquid through the air, like it's some sentient creature in it's death throes. Then, for half a moment, he catches a glimpse of pale skin and white strips through the grime before the figure is buckling and the Winchester takes a half blind leap into the gloom.

Warm weight hits his arms and Sam's miscalculated his timing. Balance shot, he hits his knees hard on the polished floor as the archangel goes limp against him. The hunter has no idea who exactly had let out that angelic roar, but he was willing to bet his non-existent salary the shorter man had been responsible for it in some way. Sam didn't even remember what had happened, one moment he'd been reaching for his laptop, the next _something_ hit the house like an explosion going off in the yard, everything afterwards was lost in the thundering sound that followed.

A sharp shout from outside the house caught his attention. _Dean._

The floating dust cloud is making it difficult to see if the archangel is even breathing, and the Winchester curses that the power has gone off and taken the fan out. Bobby crashes down next to him half a moment later, tripping over Sam's forgotten weapon of lore. He's still swearing.

“The _Hell_ was that!?” The old hunter growls. He's found a shotgun at least, it's the unloaded one from the kitchen counter but Sam supposes it's the thought that counts.

“I dunno, Bobby. We under attack or what!?”

He can just about see the older hunter's cap shake through the gloom. _“Dean!?”_ Bobby bellows instead, scrambling around the floor looking for the Bowie that had been on the desk.

Grunting, Sam pulls the limp creature to the couch. Peering out of the window as he reaches it, he spares half a second to swear under his breath at all the glass covering the fabric and floor. The sandstorm outside finally seems to be thinning, but without the floodlights there isn't much to see. _“Dean!? Cas!?”_

There's a thick, painful silence, the wind dropping completely as if the whole thing had been their imagination. Then, finally, _“Sam?_ I'm good!”

Blowing out a breath of relief, a vibrating hum rattles through the old floor as the power comes back on. Not that it does them much good, the bulbs are all shattered all over the room and light only arrives when Bobby digs out his lighter stash and finds some candles. The warm orange glow permeates through the muck sluggishly, but it's worlds better than nothing. He needs to check on Dean, just because there isn't some one out there attacking right now doesn't mean there isn't something still lurking around in the shadows waiting for their chance to spring. “Bobby, can you check Gabriel?”

Blowing out one last match and chucking Sam a flash-light still miraculously intact, the older hunter mutters “go.”

Dismissed if he ever heard it. He nearly butts heads with his older brother as he steps over the threshold. Jerking backwards and squaring his shoulders, they level each other a hard, calculating stare; searching for signs that the person opposite them is anything other than their brother. It's a tense second before they pitch each other a minor nod of confirmation before the younger Winchester reaches out to the semi-conscious Seraph hanging off Dean's shoulder. “What happened?”

Dean gave a one shouldered shrug, shifting the angel's weight more comfortably as Sam takes Castiel's other arm. “Something...I dunno... it felt like _pressure_ or something, you know like those Japanese cartoons? Just _whoosh_ ; freakin' dust everywhere.”

The younger Winchester can't help the look of disapproval that his brother's porn habit is becoming part of his descriptive narrative in everyday life. “Gross, dude.”

Dean narrows his eyes and shakes his head at him. “Not like that, Sam. Jesus _Christ...”_

“...Dean” Even slurring and straining to hold himself upright the angel still manages to sound chastising.

The older hunter snorts in response. “He lives!” He snaps sarcastically. “I've told you like three times not to fly anywhere! You couldn't even get out of the yard, what the hell made you think you could zap to _Heaven?_ Damn lucky you didn't break something.”

Either just exhausted beyond reason or tired of Dean's crap, Castiel passes out.

The pair lurch a step, unprepared. Sam struggles not to roll his eyes; what is it with these angels?

Between them, they haul the seraph into the study. The place looks like it's had it's own mini typhoon rip through the place, and in a weird way, Sam guesses it has.

Bobby is visibly seething, leaning to blow the layer of dust off of his desk and watching with black eyes as it stirs up; a good chunk of which drifts down into the neck of his whiskey bottle, settling on the amber liquid as if in smug defiance of the hunters efforts. “I _just_ finished cleaning this all up from yester-damn-day.” He scowls grumpily.

 _'Perspective, Bobby.'_ He thinks, he's not brave enough to say it out loud.

There's glass everywhere and Dean ends up kicking the rug up and out of the way to rest Castiel on the floor. Looking somewhat guiltily at Gabriel, Sam gets Bobby to help him with the archangel as Dean goes to see if there is a room in the house that has survived with all it's windows.

Dean stalks back into the study a few minutes later, barely remembering not to step on any feathers, he's lost his over-shirt to get rid of some of the glass and washed the dust of off his face too. “You're not gonna like this, man.” He starts with his hands up at the old hunter. Bobby glares from where he's tipping a chair to slide the shards from it's cushioned seat in a _No shit, Dumb-ass_ look. “The windows on the back of the house? All gone. So are the light bulbs, mirrors, and that black and white piece of crap T.V in your room.”

Growling, Bobby sinks into his chair and swigs his whiskey before he recalls the dust and backwashes it with a grim look of disgust. “Damn, low-life, supernatural pieces of ungrateful, house ruining...” He takes another pull and swallows with a look that dares them to say something about it.

Sam grimaces. “You find Uzi?”

Dean shoots a glance to the ceiling, dare Sam believe it looking almost concerned. “Under the guest bed, she ain't gonna move from there till Cas calls her.” And if Dean can't coax her out then Cas is the only one that'll be able too.

As if summoned, the seraph twitches. The candlelight is making his dust coated feathers appear dull and listless, but it still gives them a faint unearthly sheen nonetheless. Dean folds his arms and leans against the door frame, a glint of silver catching Sam's eye from his belt where he's stashed Castiel's sword. Sam wonders idly when his brother lifted that in the five minutes it's been since disaster struck. He also wonders if his brother knows just how faked his feigned nonchalance looks.

Wiping the dust from his hands onto his jeans -he gets the feeling the action does nothing at all to clean his hands- Sam crouches at the angel's side. “Castiel?” He asks cautiously.

Castiel groans softly, a thin shock of blue appearing as he cracks his eyelids, their colour seems almost black in the dim light. He shifts, lethargically dragging himself to sit up and palming at his head as if harbouring the mother of all migraines. It parallels the day before eerily.

Dean seems to notice too, because he crouches beside Sam, concern more visible in his eyes that the Seraph looks like he's been hit by a truck. “Please tell me that wasn't another one of your buddies asking for help, man. We really don't have the room; the house really can't take it.”

Sometimes Sam wonders if Dean's incapable of sounding like anything but an insensitive ass. “You okay, Cas?”

Castiel is usually a pillar of calm and quiet strength. He seems to have spent the last two and a half weeks brushing off their questions of his well being, even when he'd been bleeding to death. Angelic pride or stubbornness picked up from being an adopted Winchester has him nearly as reluctant to show weakness as Sam's emotionally constipated brother. Which kinda makes him another walking headache for the younger Winchester.

So Castiel shaking his head _no_ has all of Sam's alarms going off.

“What's up, Cas?” Dean cuts in, hand on the angel's shoulder to get his focus. It works somewhat, blue searching out green, but Sam has never seen Castiel look as old or as betrayed as he did in that moment. Sam remembers watching his own fifteen year old reflection after a screaming match with John that had had Sam raging from their hotel and to the nearest bolt hole he could find. Some grimy little motel room on the opposite side of a town he couldn't remember the name of. His dad had been blind drunk, another failed lead to track down Azazel, one more hunt with another dead kid, one more hunt where the monster got away... it had only taken one swing for Dean to erupt into the explosive _Sammy_ mode before he'd dragged his little brother out and marched them away for the night. Sam recognised the anger and hurt in that tired blue stare from his brother's eyes that night.

Bowing his head, the angel turns his stare to his hands. “Raphael...he destroyed it all...” Jimmy's hands close into fists, his knuckles going white, not even twitching with the pained moan that echoed from his angelic brother beside him. “Raphael destroyed Heaven's nursery.”

Despite the venomous rigidity in Castiel's posture that's warring with his exhausted shallow breathing, Dean can't help the words that slip out. “Heaven has a nursery?”

Oh. Dean had forgotten _that_ bitch-face even existed.

Gabriel stirring across from them seems to draw Sam's annoyance, and he awkwardly helps the archangel sit up. Castiel flicks his eyes up to catch Dean's and the hunter swallows hard, he's seen and felt a lot of anger in his life. Not that crap that has your blood boiling and makes you want to beat something to death, but the _raw fury_ that fills your throat to a point you can't breathe, so wound up just moving hurts and makes your body tremble to the point that it's only your utter rage that's keeping you upright. But he's never truly known what _divine wrath_ looked like until this moment.

It's awful to bare witness to because Castiel is spent of every scrap of power, not even a drop of human strength in his limbs, but that inferno in his eyes isn't going to die until something meets his sword and pays for whatever the hell has just happened. It makes his eyes lethal in a way Dean's never seen. It makes him nervous.

Castiel's voice is as calm as the thunder beside a lightning strike. “It takes _eons_ for Heaven's numbers to stabilise, Dean. We are not infinite, thousands have died. The only thing capable of bringing a fledgling into existence is by God's direct hand, or through Him splitting two angel's Grace. This planet will be nothing but pebbles in space by the time our numbers recover from these wars.” His eyes have gone as black as his ebony feathers. Dean suddenly feels very, very small. “There were twenty-four fledglings being guarded There. The oldest was nearly eight centuries...barely seven years old by your standards, the youngest was thirty-two, she couldn't even _speak_.”

Despite the iron of his friend's tone, the hunter still finds it weird that the youngest angel in Heaven was older than his little brother.

The forgotten archangel hunches forwards, everything about him screaming pain. Dean actually pities him a little bit, he's never seen Gabriel so shaken by anything. “What about the Watchers? I...My Grace is... made it hard to bare.”

Castiel's eyes if possible, grow darker. “Dead _. All_ of them.”

“Watcher?” The question escapes Bobby this time, though he hides his regret well under the Seraph's hard glare.

“Humans use the term _Guardian Angel_ as a general reference to all of us. Only Watchers are _Guardians_ in the true sense, they protect and raise Heaven's fledglings. Any angel can become one, it's an ingrained instinct, like with humans, in fact I believe it's where the protective instinct in humans originated from. Raphael incinerated _everyone.”_

The words settled across the room like a physical weight. And Holy Shit Dean understood. It's a collective instinct, if all angels are capable of it producing it, then maybe all angels felt it getting ripped to shreds. It wasn't even just instinct, those kids were Castiel's _siblings_. Dean may not get exactly why the angels innately seemed to be drawn to each other, but they are, in a way, social creatures. They were never meant to exist by themselves. They need each other to maintain themselves. Fucking hell Raphael killed them _all._

Sam looks as sickened as Dean feels. “That shockwave was _all_ of you?” The Heavenly Host crying as one. A fleeting thought through Dean's mind wonders if Michael and Lucifer felt what Raphael had just dared to do down in the cage.

Gabriel was all but vibrating, with anger, betrayal or disbelief Dean didn't know him well enough to tell. Defeat fell across his eyes just as strongly moments later, the expression mirroring Castiel's as the pair sat in grieving silence. Its one thing for angels to go against each other in a civil war, but there were still unspoken boundaries; Heaven's souls, still living healthy human souls, _fledglings_. They were all supposed to be safe from the crossfire. There's no _reason_ for this. The only thing Raphael could achieve here is to send a message. To say how far he'll go. To wipe out his family for the sake of his idea of peace.

As hunters, the Winchesters have fought some shit throughout their lives, _Striga, Wendigo, shifters,_ all manors of monsters and spirits that Dean's seen tear children to shreds. He's literally gone up against Satan, and the only time he's ever seen something so evil was during his last ten years in Hell. He'd watched Alastair carve up a little kid that must have been Hell bound the second she was born, and then watched the demon offer him the knife like a gift.

Dean cut out her heart.

It shakes his soul, the echo of sulphur burning his throat even now. Memories of Hell shake loose like dominoes and Dean's not going to be able to sleep for weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is super late, it's been an awful week with being ill, and dissertation problems, and work. And I'm really sorry guys. So double update :) I promise never to leave it this late again.


	15. A Road With No End (In Sight)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, Raphael's pushed too far, and Gabriel's had enough.

It's raining.

Torrential streams of water pummel the old buildings' tiles, the heavy _tap-tip-tap-tip_ echoing softly through the cool, bleak night air. With all of the damage to the windows, the weather has turned the air thick and cloying, and the place reeks of damp. Dean and Sam had been frantically taping up sheets of plastic, fastening them to the walls with the strongest duct tape Bobby could find before the storm front barrelled into the house. It hadn't been forecast.

That had been three hours ago.

The house is calmer than it had been before, the anger had bled out into a sullen silence between the two celestial beings. The world outside the safety of the wards is not so quiet; a storm is raging, occasional rumbles that t vibrate down to Dean's very bones and lightning that lights up the guest bedroom no matter how tightly the hunter pulls the curtains closed. The guest bedroom had survived the glass barrage, one of the few rooms with all of it's windows still intact, and the hunter and his angel have bunked down again.

Bobby had been bitter to be plastering tarp across his bedroom windows. It'd been lucky that only one of them had blown out and the older hunter was determined to sleep through the incessant rattling the plastic made against the wind as if in pure defiance against Raphael that he _would_ get to sleep in his own bed. Spiteful old geezer.

Sam had dragged the archangel down into the panic room. The study was a mess of glass and dirt, not an

ideal place for something that may now be susceptible to infection to recover in. So between them, Dean and Sam had closed over the panic rooms ceiling fan to keep the rain out and dragged the two cots down. Gabriel had been hit the worst out of the two angels, something about the sheer _volume_ of angelic movement blasting through angel-radio had been far too much for his crippled Grace to shield himself from. Much like the Seraph had collapsed under Gabriel's assault, the archangel wasn't handling it that well either. Castiel had mumbled the archangel had been lucky not to have seizure. Dean had been doubting the severity to which Gabriel had been fucked up until that moment.

Castiel's not that much better off. The Seraph is sleeping at Dean's side, curled like a winged cat around Uzziel who'd whined and shivered and cried until she finally feel asleep safely ensconced in the angel's arms. The damn angel has to stop draining himself dry the instant any scraps of his Grace return. It's driving the hunter into an early grave...well, again; every time Dean finally feels like he doesn't need to worry: Wham. _Haha, Dean, you poor gullible bastard._

The force of Raphael's actions had triggered the angel's defensive instinct as the pressure hit, or so Dean figured tiredly. The battering of angel-radio had dazed the angel and his knee-jerk reaction had been to try and protect his home. Heaven was under an assault the like of which hadn't been seen before, he'd spread his shredded wings and flown. He hadn't had a hope in hell of making it, but Dean supposes it's like realising you aren't going to outrun that Hell-hound; you know it, but you're going to damn well give it your _all_ to try anyway. Castiel never has been one to just lay down and take it.

Despite being drained and angry, Castiel is, somewhat miraculously, still recovering from the Hugoton disaster. After half-dragging the protesting angel into the guest room, Dean had practically shoved him onto the mattress, threatened (blackmailed) him into submission, and stripped the bandages from his injured wing. The wings had been sore and swollen on that truck before ground-zero hit; the last deep slash had been weeping blood and Grace afterwards on that bed. Stitching it back together again was done in testy silence, Castiel's pride rattled and bruised at being manhandled by his human, and Dean irritated that the angel had ignored the hunter's warnings in the first place. The wing was recovering regardless of the recent few setbacks; the two shallower wounds had all but healed completely now, the deep gash on Castiel's waist was also nothing but a thin red line. The deep wound in the back of his shoulder is still a bit of an issue. The Seraph isn't one for displays of pain, but he's not as stoic as he thinks he his; he'll twitch if he reaches with the left arm, or if he moves the wing to fast and it pulls the muscles. He favours it if he's holding something too, but it's still a great deal better than it had been, Dean shakes away the echo of worry he'd felt in Hugoton that the hook had torn through Castiel's lung too badly for even the angel to survive. The two deeper wounds of the wing itself are a mess, but Dean still has the haunting memories of great hewn gashes raked across the thick muscles of his wing, heaving blood and Grace in that damned mansion, the angel writhing as they tried to stop the gushing and failing miserably. The damage now seems almost inconsequential in comparison.

Idly, surrounded by the dark, dank night air, Dean wonders how long it'll be before some of these more human routines disappear again. Castiel has been sleeping heavily over the past two and a half weeks, though it's been growing less and less frequent the more his Grace recovered, before Gabriel's distress call that is. The whole thing had been bizarre and three different kinds of hilarious, mainly because the angel didn't really get _how_ sleep worked, nor did he like it, like at all. After the first week of almost continuous unconsciousness, Cas would shuffle around painfully until he'd exhaust his strength; his head would start nodding, half dozing before jerking back to attention with such a look of alarm and confusion Dean's ribs ached for _ages_ trying not to laugh in his face.

No matter what Sam said to him, Cas just never seemed to clue into falling asleep. By the end of the second week, the angel had seemed more resigned to this irritating, bothersome ritual. He'd read which ever book of the day he'd pilfered curled up somewhere warm with his stupid dog, until he'd notice his vessels pleas for rest and retire upstairs. He'd lay there in confusion for about an hour, furiously trying to command his body to sleep and then doing it accidentally when his vessel had had enough of the mental strain and gave up the ghost. It was less sleep, more than it was passing out. These little dozing periods of Castiel's had been growing shorter; now it looks like it's coming back for a few days. Dean's finding it really hard to be disappointed.

Beside him, Uzi wines quietly. The pattering rain against the windows muffles the sound of Castiel shifting in response, curling around the small creature more tightly. The pair settle a moment later, the tiny puppy sighing contentedly against the angel's chest, Dean feels something warm burning against his ribs. He'd spent ages telling himself angels are heartless dicks, they'd sooner kill every person on the planet than consider actually coming down and just _looking_ at all of the families and _people_ they wanted to obliterate. But, not this one, at least, not anymore. Heck, Castiel's never really wanted to hurt any of them, he _would_ have back in the day if he'd been told to, the hunter didn't doubt that, but not any more. Dean Winchester has a freaking _Angel of The Lord_ curled up like a kitten in front of him and it's probably the most outrageously bizarre moment of realisation that he's ever had. It's the _least bad-ass_ thing he's ever seen in his seventy something years and it takes some strong will power not to laugh in incredulity.

This is his _life_ now. Him and Sam, Hell's freakin' travel agents. Bobby Singer; the old drunk that currently doesn't have full ownership of his soul but is probably the closest thing to a real father Dean and Sam are ever going to get. Castiel; occasional angel bad-ass of the Lord-(occasional winged-kitten in Dean's clothes)- who's practically claimed the Winchesters as _his own_. And a twelve week old Scottish Terrier puppy with interchangeable names, Dean's still pretty sure Castiel doesn't realise that they're calling her two different things.

He has no honest idea what to classify Gabriel as; an angelic squatter comes to mind with no small amount of disdain.

It's weird and absurd, he wonders what John would say. The head Winchester and Bobby had parted on rocky terms, and honestly Dean couldn't ever seeing the older Winchester bridging that gap again. His dad would probably outwardly reject the notion of Castiel's existence and try to put a blade through his heart. He can still picture his father's the disappointed frown, the one he would send disapprovingly at Uzziel. It strikes Dean that he did two of these himself, he shakes that thought away. This is Dean's family, and it bites that his father would disapprove.

John Winchester always hated working with other hunters, his obsession had fucked up Dean and Sam's childhoods in so many ways that the hunter wouldn't be able to list them all even if he'd tried. And yeah, Dean gets that John had done his best, had been in a situation that even the older Winchester has a hard time imagining, but that last order that Dean may have to kill his baby brother had snapped a hole in his idealisation of the man.

Dean had spent his entire life striving to be like his father, and it's in the darkness of that guest bedroom, listening to the rain, Castiel's soft breathing, and a small dog's snoring, that Dean realises that maybe it's better he hadn't ended up completely the same.

–

The next few days are rocky to say the least.

Howling winds and seemingly endless rains continue to poor down as if the entire Pacific ocean has been sucked into the clouds and being let loose on them. The down pour eases, eventually, two days later and needless to say the Impala has well and truly been washed of all dust; she suffers great spatters of mud in its place. It's a damn good thing for the sake of Hell, Heaven and Earth, that his Baby's windows had been spared.

The heat comes back shortly after, the dark clouds easing and fucking off to bother someone else for a few days. Dean and Bobby had taken a trip down to _Nyberg's Ace: the helpful place_ to arrange getting new glass panes cut to size, restock on light bulbs, and collect a whole array of other necessities to help fix the damage done to the house from the shockwave and the damn typhoon afterwards. Bobby's mood gradually improves the closer his house becomes to being water proof again, and the tension rattling around the old building seems to lift hour by hour.

Castiel mostly spends his time sitting on the library floor surrounded by dusty old tomes of lore and framed by his great wings, furiously scribbling down Enochian notes on whatever scraps of paper he can lay his hands on. It's rare to see the angel make physical notes, he usually catalogues everything he learns in that stupidly intelligent head of his and Dean feels like he's having his teeth pulled getting him to explain anything. The hunter isn't so sure it's his still weakened Grace drawing him to writing all of a sudden, something about it feels different, the way the angel keeps glancing over the symbolic scrawls reminds the Winchester of trying out a new Glock; testing it's weight in his palm, the way it molds to his hands and the strength of the kick back as it fires. It's something he's probably picked up from Sam during their nerdy little lore debates that often trundle on till the early hours of the morning until Bobby has to bark at them to shut up and sleep (in not nearly so polite a way).

Something about it makes his chest do a somersault. He shoves it all down and carries on fitting windows.

Sam alternates between researching with Castiel, exchanging notes and any titbits the younger nerd has found from the internet (Cas and Google aren't great friends), and disappearing into the panic room. Dean doesn't quite understand what he spends so much time doing down there, but he's not sure he likes it. Gabriel had been well and truly burnt out after _The Incident_ as Sam's taken to calling it, out cold for nearly the full two days until coming to yesterday morning. He's been quiet, and that above anything else freaks Dean out.

Uzziel trotting into the room breaks Dean's thoughts away from the archangel. She's grown quite a bit since Castiel pulled her out of his coat pocket like some weird-ass holy magician; she's starting to fill into her paws, ears straightening out and steadier on her feet. The little black creature's coat is getting longer too, looking more like a tall black rat than a Scottie anymore. She needs brushing out, and Dean vetoes that mission with a savage conviction. He mentally volunteers Sam, because for all that Castiel can obliterate the forces of Hell and flatten a city (when not drained to the point of sleeping), that winged angel couldn't hurt that dog if his life depended on it.

The small black mess sidles up to the oblivious seraph leaning against the couch, stumbling over his carefully spread notes and books without any other care other than to clamber into his lap and beg for fuss, or food, or both.

Castiel startles from his musings, blue eyes darting to the huge soft browns beaming up at him with nothing short of manipulating adoration. His wings twitch out in irritation at the ruffling of his careful organisation, but Dean sees the inclination to scold her die in the angel's ageless gaze the moment she starts wagging her long wiry tail. Castiel nearly huffs, letting the creature curl up on his ( _Dean's_ ) sweats and produces a small dog treat from who knows where. Uzi's eyes light up with nothing short of love as she scoffs the treat down, licks his fingertips and curls down on his lap to doze. A strange smile appears on the angel's face, eyes half lidded and calm as he runs a gentle hand through her coat, she huffs in bliss.

Not for the first time, Dean thinks the word _gentle_.

Shaking his head, the hunter wonders when the hell exactly his brain had begun it's betrayal to turn him into his brother. Dean goes in search for an untapped source of manly testosterone and some beer, window be damned. Stalking to the kitchen, he absently eyes the floor for any wayward slivers of glass that he may of missed; Castiel seems to have become addicted to the novel feeling of no shoes and him and Uzi are lucky they haven't cut themselves yet. Grabbing a new bottle from the fridge, he catches sight of his baby brother stalking towards the basement stairs before vanishing from sight. Dean stomps back to the study to finish the last window.

“You find anything?” He asks, forcing off the cap against his palm and lazily chucking it on Bobby's desk where it becomes lost in the sea of old documents and empty light-bulb boxes. Probably should do something about those.

Castiel doesn't look up, instead frowning down at his multitude of paper scraps before reaching for a new book. “Nothing of particular use. I remember much about Heaven's weapons, but there are very few that can actually harm Raphael and of ones that are capable, I've heard little more than rumours about. We were never provided access to that kind of information.” He scowls irritably, annoyed that he'd never taken the time to investigate the history of all of Heaven's weapons before the Apocalypse arose. He'd taken Gabriel's rejection and anger well, but there was still a tension to his shoulders that wasn't there before, wings curling inwards just a little more than normal.

Dean shrugs, brushing the dust from his sleeves and taking a pull of his drink. “Well, guess I'd be worried if this was suddenly easy.”

The angel hums non-committally, wings twitching as he sighs. Dean gets the impression that he's being dismissed and rolls his eyes; turning back to the glassless frame, the deep monotone of the angel's voice halts his hands before he can grab the new sheet. “You are worried. About Gabriel.”

Dean huffs, turning back to the Seraph that is staring at him from the corner of his eyes. “Don't say that like I'm _concerned_ about him, man.” He drawls bitterly, because; _As if_. “He's quiet, he's never _quiet_.”

Castiel considers him, closing his new book and leaning back against the couch and wings. “I suspect he's still exhausted, and The Incident three days ago...” He grimaces quickly, “will have given him much to think about. I don't know if he'll want to leave when he's able to and go “ _underground_ ” again, as you say. Or if he'll return to Heaven, but he is at risk until his Grace heals. I don't doubt he will be quiet for some time yet.”

That doesn't exactly sound reassuring to the hunter's ears. “Sounds a lot like sulking to me.”

The hunter can see the physical effort it takes for the seraph not to roll his eyes. “Would you rather him be causing mischief?”

Dean actually has to give in then. “Hell, no. It's going to take long enough to fix all this crap without that idiot covering every freakin' surface in Taffy or something else just as damn sticky.” Castiel tilts his head, and Dean has a monumental urge to face-palm, _be the bigger man, Dean, resist_. “It's candy, Cas.”

The stare he gets in response could pretty much be summed up as _Well then, stop complaining_ , and Dean can't help himself mumbling “shut up” as he picks up the new glass for the window.

–

The heavy iron door creaks on it's hinges. It always does. No matter how softly Sam tries to pull it open, it will groan as noisily as a dying whale; each time it happens he begins berating himself for automatically closing it on the way out, he does it every freaking time. Wincing at the noise, he crosses the concrete floor to the small wooden desk and unloads his arms of the few texts he had been nosing through on one of the upstairs bookshelves. The archangel stirs on the bed across the room at the noise, and Sam makes a point of evaluating the state of the room while the archangel regains his bearings without having the young Winchester staring at him.

The pressure from _The Incident_ had had dust settling in through the large overhead fan vents before he and Dean could pull the slats shut. Sam's already swept most of the settled dirt from the small protective room, but it still makes the air musty, coating the top of the occasional shelf with a fine coat of light brown. The space hasn't really changed much besides the extra layer; racks of weapons, shelves of books and taped boxes, two small desks opposite each other with a few folding chairs, and a weird old cushioned seat that would look more at home in a little old lady's sitting room rather than next to the sacks of salt and jugs of holy water.

The only obvious change to the place are the odd Enochian symbols Castiel has painted up, Sam makes a mental point to ask what they mean later. Actually, he's debating whether or not to ask Castiel to teach him the ancient angelic language entirely. The symbols, while not always overly difficult to translate with the help of texts, were quite often absent from even the hunter genre of historic references. The language is intricate, older than the Earth itself in a way that no others are; each time Castiel begins a ritual or spell, the sheer power of those harsh words seems to shake the air itself. There's something humbling about it, words so powerful it can make the ground quake.

Learning the language from the internet and old books _was_ possible, Sam supposes. It would be difficult, but doable; but he would never know _that much_ ; only what the handful of rare, gifted (or cursed, depending on your point of view) people with the ability to talk to angels unrestrained by vessels had been able to write down. But that's all it would ever be, scrawlings of the few humans that could understand the ancient words, naturally talented with such old speech. And that's before others have gotten to the texts and altered and edited and translated them until riddled with the type of minor errors that cause Castiel's head to tilt in confusion whenever Bobby reads out something. Sam has two genuine angels in the house, and yeah, they've quite literally destroyed his small pool of faith and belief in a good Heaven, but Castiel at least is an endless source of information that Sam rarely gets to prod at.

He's nervous about asking. For all that he's faced down Hell's chosen and all things that go bump in the night, Castiel is still an angel. Yeah, Sam sometimes lets that little fact slip his mind more often than not. Especially when the seraph tilts his head warily when the Winchesters launch into a debate about the merits of bacon verses the apparent travesty that is spinach (Dean's thoughts, not his), leading to consequent pranks and noogie head locks. Domesticity will probably never be one of the angel's strong points, he will _always_ be an angel, mojo or not. And sometimes Castiel will look at him with eyes older than the stars above them, countenance as grave as an old raven, and suddenly Sam feels like he's two inches tall standing in the eye of a factor five tornado. He doesn't know how Dean can stand to _stare_ back.

He's the very definition of an enigma, as if he's crawled out of the Dictionary definitions' very lines. Half of Sam is worried that Castiel will say no, the other half worried he'll say yes; because then the question of _why?_ Will probably come up and Sam will feel like an ever bigger child explaining himself.

“That wall sure is interesting. Eh, Sambo?”

Gabriel's voice is worn and thin, but it breaks through Sam's thoughts; huh, he's just spent a good five minutes staring mindlessly at an iron wall. Turning, Sam shrugs his shoulders, “thinking.” He drops as a justification, eyeing the way the archangel tentatively eases himself to sit up right. He has a good fourteen deep cuts littering his chest and back; the worst one under his right shoulder is more like a stab than a cut and the tearing wound had definitely been made worse by twisting the blade at least once.

He'd lost quite a bit of blood by the time Sam had finished bandaging everything, Castiel telling him not to bother stitching, periodically draining himself to ease the damage each time the archangel fell asleep again. Castiel would sneak down whenever he could without Dean realising he was expending his Grace again.

The Seraph would probably have a problem with calling it “sneaking” but that's what it damn well looks like to this hunter. And yeah, Sam knows Dean's maternal care mode can do that to a person, even one as stoic as Cas.

If Gabriel notices the wounds are healing faster than his ruptured Grace should be allowing, he isn't saying anything about it. Sam's pretty sure it's bruised pride to blame.

He still looks like crap. His skin is pale, eyes still deeply bruised, hair dishevelled and hanging in the way of his eyes. He's thinner than Sam remembers, too. He actually pities the guy, more than he thought he might. They've had their misgivings in the past, God knows Sam's spent a now non-existent six months dreaming about killing the guy, and another month feeling guilty that they'd driven the youngest archangel brother to practical suicide. Because _of course_ there was no way Gabriel was going to survive going up against Lucifer, and the truth of the matter is, that if it wasn't for the Winchester's convincing him of it, Gabriel would have just grabbed Kali and left.

Gritting his teeth, Sam jerks the thought away. Gabriel is an _archangel_ , despite everything, Sam and Dean didn't force the idiot into that show-down, Gabriel didn't have to come back to that hotel. The youngest archangel knew what he was rolling himself up to, his porn-o of a note had been proof enough of that. But, maybe it's because they didn't really make him do it all that had Sam feeling so guilty afterwards.

“Well, Kiddo. I would stop if I were you, it doesn't look like it's agreeing with you.”

Sam jerks again, shaking himself and levelling the shorter man a critical stare. “You, uh... feel any better?”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Sam, not that I don't love being the centre of your attention, but quit staring at me like I'm dying, it's depressing for everybody.” Drawling the words out, the archangel gingerly swings his feet down to the floor, picking at the bandages across his chest. “You boys ever gonna give me back my shirt?”

Sam wonders when they're actually going to get to the _talk_ , it's been three days already. Sure Gabriel's spent most of those hours unconscious, but the few that he hasn't he's spent avoiding the topic and insulting Sam's ever growing hair. “'Fraid not, it's in three pieces. Sorry about that, I didn't think you'd mind at the time.” _What with saving your life and all_ , goes left unsaid. He reaches and grabs something off of the pile he'd carried down and chucks a grey hoodie at the archangel's sour face.

A look of surprise blooms across Gabriel's features, it'll hurt like a bitch to get on, but it'll be warmer and comfier than anything else that Sam has to give him. He'd only noticed it yesterday evening, but like Castiel, it seems that now drained, the archangel can feel the temperature much more keenly, shivering on his cot even when asleep until Sam had given in and gone in search of another blanket. Gabriel raises an eyebrow, but apparently thinks better of commenting, sliding the fabric over his head and trying not to wince too obviously instead.

The hoodie is old, at least five or six years since Sam brought it from a thrift shop somewhere in the north-west one winter. The last time it'd even been worn was Dean getting electrocuted going after that damn Rawhead. Dean usually didn't go for hoodies or sweaters, declaring them too restricting and  _ What the hell do you need a hood for if it's not freakin' raining?! _ But this trend apparently didn't apply when sick or mortally wounded; at the time it'd made Sam's heart burn, back in the days when neither of them had died before and the worst problem they had was finding Dad.

Sam scoffs quietly to himself at how badly it had all gone down hill.

Gabriel glances down at himself at the sound; the sleeves are too long, sized for giants, not for someone pushing 5”8. “Come on now, Sambo. I know it's big, but there's no need for that.”

The younger Winchester shakes his head, it's been washed too many times at too high a temperature, ridiculously small for Sam now; a relic of an age past, a survivor despite the odds. “ ' _ Maybe it's about time to have a little faith _ ,  _ Dean _ .' I said that once, last time someone wore that. We were hunting this Rawhead; two little kids had gone missing...” Gabriel's giving him a look Sam was beginning to recognise as  _ what the hell, Sam. Are we having a moment? Really?  _ “We found the kids in this tiny little basement with a fucking  _ leak, _ man. I got the kids out, by the time I came back the Rawhead was dead and Dean had been electrocuted. Doctors gave him a month, max.”

“Heaven never would've let you or Dean stay dead, Sambo.”

Sam glares icily, momentarily stunned by how angry that makes him before he squashes it all back down again. “We didn't know that. Dean was dying, Dad was missing, Jess was dead.” Something in his chest aches and twists at just the thought of her, even after so long. A look of confusion falls over the archangel's face briefly, because  _ of course  _ he didn't know about her. He wonders if he was in any of her Heaven highlights. “I drove him to a  _ Faith Healer,  _ and man he complained about it the whole time.” There's something vaguely absurd and ironic about mentioning a faith healer to an angel, an archangel at that. “It saved his life, killed someone else. Poor guy didn't know his wife had trapped a Reaper.”

Gabriel whistles. “A life for a life.” Sam can see the archangel doesn't really get why he'd told him that. That's all right, Sam doesn't really know either. “Can't imagine you boys have all that much faith left, eh?”

Smirking dryly, Sam drops onto his small cot next to Gabriel's. “Not really... Well, maybe some.” He amends lightly after a moment.

Curiosity fills that amber even as he winces his way to perching cross-legged on his own bed. It must make them look like a pair of girls at a sleep over Sam thinks wryly to himself. “Wouldn't blame ya for none, Sambo. Trust me when I say I know  _ just  _ how over-bearing my family can be.”

“Well, you can't  _ all _ be bad, right? I mean, Cas has been helping us,  _ and  _ he dragged me out of Hell's cage.”

Gabriel sits up straighter at that, Sam would swear on his laptop later that he saw a flicker of concern there. “Castiel pulled you out? I heard you got pulled in, but my little bro made it sound like he had help.”

Sam frowned. “No. It was just Cas. I don't really remember it that well, Castiel said he dimmed it down. But Dean was swearing about him being stupid under his breath for so long afterwards that he must've been completely fried afterwards... If Cas is all right, and I know he was a bit of a dick in the beginning, then there must be others?”

Gabriel's gaze hardens over instantly and Sam wonders for half a moment if he's pressed a little bit too far after  _ The Incident _ . The rigidity slumps a few seconds later, and the hunter can't think of anything other than how tired the archangel looks. “There were, kiddo... Been gone a  _ long _ time, Sambo. I imagine a few want of them want my head on a pole.” 

And Sam  _ gets _ that. Because screaming matches with John and watching Dean being ripped in two different directions had been unbearable. Sam has never wanted this life, for him or Dean. They may be damn good at it, but Sam remembers school and other children that didn't have to deal with crossbow practice and hustling lessons on the weekends. He remembers being so annoyed that he'd storm away from the cafeteria, sick of over-hearing how impossible some other child's mother was being because they'd been grounded for staying out past curfew. That soul crushing pressure from his father had had Sam leave in the end, biting at Sam until he couldn't  _ bare  _ it anymore and he left that life behind. Gabriel pointed out to him once that he was like Lucifer, the rebellious so;, but in all honesty, sometimes Sam sees a good chunk of himself in the injured, abandoned, youngest archangel opposite him. They were both running from lives that refused to be left behind. 

“Well...” He stretches, offering a beer to the archangel from the stash in the cooler beside his bed before taking his own. “Two of you will have to do for now, I guess.” He scowls at the sudden sweep of surprise across Gabriel's face. “Don't get me wrong, dude. I'm still pissed with what you did at mystery spot, and you turned me into the freakin'  _ Impala! _ But, we kinda got you killed too...So you know, there wasn't much else you could get to make it even.”

Gabriel huffs a laugh, wincing again and taking a pull of his beer. “Come on, Sambo.  _ The Nightrider _ thing  _ was _ funny.”

Sam sends the archangel a stern bitch-face. “Do you have to keep calling me that?”

Waggling his eyebrows, the archangel smirks coyly. “Sadly, yes. I do.”

Grumbling, the hunter kicks off his boots and leans back against his pillow, ignoring the annoying watchfulness coming from his left. “Well then, I guess I'll learn to make do,  _ Gabe.” _

Clutching his hand to his heart, the archangel nearly wails with sarcasm. “How ever will I cope with such a nickname.”

“With any luck, quietly.” Sam snaps, lacking any real heat. “Especially if you're gonna be sticking around until Cas stops staring at you as if he expects you to drop dead.”

The remark halts whatever Gabriel had been about to reply straight on his lips. He watches Sam carefully for a moment instead, it makes the hunter sit up straighter, it's not often they see that much seriousness on the angel's face. Quietly, the archangel sighs softly. “Baby bro always did worry about me too much, I guess...” He admits to himself, it sends Sam's eyebrows crawling to his hairline. “My older brothers are all in time-out, Dad's probably not coming back, Raphael's apparently gone nuts.” He shrugs loosely. “Someone's gotta get the train back on the rails... I guess I'll have to do.” He manages, it's as close to a chick-flick as any of them have ever gotten to the archangel.

He's tired, Sam can tell that much easily. He doesn't usually stay awake for more than ten or twenty minutes at a time, but this is a different form of exhausted. Gabriel doesn't want to kill Raphael any more than he wanted to kill Lucifer. He doesn't want to face his family and stare back at the angels he left behind so long ago. But at the same time, he can't listen to them rip each other apart any more, Raphael pushed way too far in killing all of those defenceless little kids. Everything about the situation is pushing the archangel into a situation he's been trying to avoid for thousands of years and yeah, sometimes Sam definitely sees more of himself in Gabriel than he does in Lucifer. “Does that mean you'll help us with this?” It's hard to keep the faint tone of hopefulness out of his voice.

Shrugging stiffly, the archangel downs the rest of his beer and carefully eased back down against his pillow, staring up at the pentagram above them. “'Fraid I'm not in much of a state to be useful, Sambo. Cassie was right, my mojo's almost all gone, it's gonna take months to come back.”He pauses briefly, frowning thoughtfully. “Not that Castiel's is ever gonna come back if he keeps shoving it all down my throat. That poor doughnut must have damn near died with his wings in that state.”

“Don't say that in front of Dean.” Sam mumbles back, idly. “...We're looking for Heaven's weapons to stop Raphael, Cas thinks he's planning something huge, but we don't know what yet.”

The silence between them carries on for so long that Sam glances over just to make sure the archangel hasn't actually fallen asleep. Staring hard up at the ceiling, Gabriel's eyes are narrowed and calculating. Eventually, his light sigh breaks through the quiet. “I don't know anything about where they might be now; might know a thing or two Cassie doesn't about the weapons that could work, though.”

Frowning at the half-hearted tone, Sam props himself up on his elbows. He doesn't like the doubt in the other man's voice. “You know we're not gonna just give you up to Raphael, right?”

Chuckling tersely, Gabriel gives the hunter a pitying look, like he's said something bold and naïve. “My, my, making me a promise?” It's  _ don't make promises you won't keep  _ if Sam's ever heard it.

It grates harshly against his nerves and he stares back at the injured creature fiercely. “You're stuck with us because Castiel wants you here, and you died helping us. We don't screw with people the way you used to, man. Now, I'm sorry you're stuck down here with us damned Winchesters, but this is the only place you have to stay unless you _ want _ Heaven and Hell raining down on you. We don't just chuck people out, Gabe.”

Snorting Gabriel sinks back into his scratchy pillow. “The first thing I'm doing when I get some juice back is giving you some frills, man. Seriously? Like, does your hair suck more testosterone straight from your balls the longer it gets or what?” It's gratified nonchalance and it's the best Sam's going to get. “I mean, holy crap, Sambo. That was soft even for you.”

Smiling despite himself, Sam shakes his head. “Shut up.”

He's not feeling fond. He's not.

–

It's another day before Gabriel wakes up feeling like he has the strength to walk somewhere.

It's dreadfully muggy in Bobby Singer's panic room, even with the fan rotating and the top slats half open. The heat clings to his skin uncomfortably and not for the first time it reminds the archangel that he's been trapped in this fragile arrangement of skin, flesh and bone. It shouldn't unnerve him; he's had this vessel for centuries, (changing would have clued in some of his Pagan _colleagues)_ and to be honest, Gabriel may have grown a bit too sentimental in his old age. Fact is, this vessel is one of only two that are his, but the other one's bloodline is growing thinner and thinner and possessing them would be uncomfortable for any length of time. He doesn't know how Castiel could stand falling if it felt anything like this.

As it is, he's very badly injured. The archangel would be foolish to ignore it. So far, he thinks rather smugly, he's hidden the extent of it from the humans quite well; it makes him wonder if Sam knows how right Castiel is to expect him to “ _drop down dead”_ if he expends himself too much. His Grace isn't just depleted to scraps, it's _injured_ , and using too much of it will just keep forcing his light to crack and fissure until he can't take it anymore and his light extinguishes itself. The stress would kill his vessel, he was like, ninety-eight percent sure of that. It's frustrating and really fucking annoying, but he'll sooner bite through his lip than bitch about it in front of the humans. He still has his pride after all. If humans can stand to be this weak and survive, if his _little brother_ can stand to be just as damaged and survive, then Gabriel damn well will too.

Can't be out-classed by baby bro, that's just sad.

That being said, it's hard to seem impressive and angelically all powerful compared to Cassie when the other angel is flashing his wings at the humans all the time. He's yet to get that story out of someone, but the way Castiel winces down to the Grace whenever he stretches the left one makes Gabriel's ache just imagining it. That kid always was one to get into the big scraps; having the essence of himself manifested and torn apart seems like just the thing that asshole Dean would lead Cas into. His damn brother had probably followed him into the danger zone like a lovestruck puppy.

Shaking the thoughts away, Gabriel grits his teeth. For now his biggest challenge is getting from the small bed he's on now and up the stairs to the hopefully cooler library; he completely ignores the fact he doesn't want to take the hoodie off. Such an easy feat shouldn't seem like such a rash undertaking, but it does and man that above all else drives his motivation to do it; he's never denied being vain after all. Sitting up and swinging his legs down to the floor should be the easiest bit, but it rips through his slashes and the cracked ribs Sam had diagnosed him with savagely. It's equal part pain from his vessel and pain from his Grace, the two so closely bound through time and depleted strength that Gabriel almost regrets not changing his vessel at some point in the past.

The stabbing aches eventually subside into a throbbing pain deep in his chest. The archangel stubbornly pushes himself to his feet and locks his knees beneath him. The room tilts menacingly for a few breathless moments, before settling gratefully level again.

Gabriel allows himself an indulgent smile. “Fuck you, gravity.” That taken care of, he takes stock. His ribs burn nastily, and the archangel presses the palm of his right hand to his chest in a futile attempt to ease the throb. That said, besides the howling cuts, exhaustion and breathlessness; he doesn't feel _too_ bad.

_Come on, Gabriel. You got this._

Sucking in a deeper breath, forcing it down regardless of how much it hurts, his head clears a little and he shuffles carefully over to the huge  _ Premier 1927 _ iron door Sam's left open for once. He has to pause to lean against it, panting shallowly to shoo the darkness from his vision. He's bone tired already, the feeling creeping up on him slowly, making his vessel's limbs feel laden and heavy and  _ man. W _ hen was the last time he felt this bad? After a particularly rough night with Kali? After breaking Gleipir holding Fenrir at bay? He tries not to, but he can't help but acknowledge that it'd been the last fight between Michael and Lucifer before he left Heaven.

Oddly, the thought strikes him of whether or not his mischievous son actually knows Odin's dead. Those two would spend _centuries_ hurling death threats at each other, sometimes in good humour, sometimes not. The lore never did seem to get it right, and if you asked Gabriel,  Týr deserved to lose that hand, arrogant bastard.

A laugh bursts from his chest, he flinches at both the pain and slight hysteria there.

_ Get it together, Gabe. _

It's been a while since he's had a genuine nickname of his true name. Even longer since he's actually had it said to his face.

He must be more tired than he thought. Grumbling about stupid Winchesters and their penchant for dragging home weakened angels, Gabriel pushes himself away from the frame and carries on his shuffling way to the basement stairs. They seem much steeper up close, there's no rail either.

Gabriel, Archangel of the West, will not be beaten by thirteen steps.

Half way up said stairs sometime later, he supposes that perhaps maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if Sam or Castiel were to make a sudden appearance. He shudders at the very thought of providing that kind of ammo for Dean. But hell, even Grandpa would do right now.

...This is ridiculous.

He is  _ older than the stupid tree these steps were made from _ , if that's not irritating, he doesn't know what is. He will not lose to some stupid wood.

Grunting, he forces himself up the last few steps in a single desperate burst of strength, reaching the hallway nearly thanking his Dad with relief before he can catch himself. He indulges in a moment to recover himself, before he shuffles through the archway into the library.

Made it.

Fuck,  _ yeah _ . Suck on that, world.

Castiel is sitting cross-legged on the floor, pointedly not looking at the older angel as he crosses the floor on dead feet and drops exhaustedly into the one chair in the library that looks as if it was torn between being a hard desk chair and an armchair. The archangel feels something a lot like guilt rising in his gut when his baby brother refuses to look at him.

“Eight minutes.” Castiel says suddenly, something that almost might be dry humour colouring the undertones of his vessel's voice as Dean stalks in the room, the hunter's eyebrows raising at the archangel's new attire.

Guilt gone. Irritation back. “Why, Cassie; that was cold even for you.”

Dean looks lost as he peers at the archangel from the other side of the room. Gabriel's a little surprised by how much he wants Sam in the room so Dean has to at least watch his tone. His annoyance at Castiel leaving him to face _Mt. Staircase_ fades when he catches those too blue eyes glancing up at him icily. _Ooh,_ all right then. “Okay, sure. Maybe I deserved that one, Castiel.” He has his hands up in surrender and everything. Who knew he had it in him?

The tension in the seraph's shoulders bleeds away a little bit, the storm fading from his eyes and he nods in the end. It's as close to an apology as he's used to getting and it's good enough for him. For all that Castiel is a devious little bastard, he's still Gabriel's baby brother. And, yes, that means something to this angel.

“You, look like crap.” Dean puts in helpfully, passing Castiel two more books he's scrounged up and a glass of orange juice as a little black furry rat stumbles into the room. The bizarre little thing trots to Castiel, clambers over his thighs and settles on his lap. Most surprising of all, Castiel doesn't even blink, sipping his stupid juice like this is an everyday occurrence.

“ _What_ is that?” He knows damn well it's a puppy; but a baby animal and his stoic little brother doesn't strike the archangel as a likely match made in Heaven.

Suddenly, Gabriel misses his Jack Russell. He left it with a little family in Liechtenstein to look after; they'd promised to take care of the stray, and to give him back if Gabriel ever returned for him. The debate to pick the little guy up had already been settled quickly. The archangel's been dead for three months now, those two little girls have probably bonded with the little menace, the first real home that dog's ever had since Gabriel found it shivering in the snow a week after a Christmas a few years back. It'd been a moment of weakness for the archangel. Usually the human holidays don't bother him, but that year had been one in a long line of a few bad ones, he'd taken the tiny thing home to one of his bolt hole apartments. Jackie had never left.

His reverie is broken by the sheer _affection_ in Castiel's eyes. A stranger probably wouldn't even see it, but those wings inch down, tips curling inwards as he runs a long, gentle finger under it's chin. The little creature puffs in bliss. “Uzziel. I pulled her from a river.”

Gabriel can't help the teasing smile that spreads across his face. “Uzziel?”

The seraph looks down, as if mildly embarrassed. “It fits.” He sounds petulant.

Chortling, the archangel stares down at the little bundle, something about it seems...off. “She...feels like you, bro?”

Dean, apparently annoyed at having his insult ignored, drops down into the couch to Castiel's right. “Could at least act like you heard me.”

The look of resigned acceptance on Castiel's face at his human has the archangel smirking again. “She was almost dead when I reached her, she was difficult to disentangle from my Grace...I was injured at the time and she bonded to my Grace unintentionally.”

Positively sulking, Dean drinks his beer in moody silence.

“That got anything to do with that witch?” Gabriel digs at instead. Curious he tells himself, not solicitous.

The space that Castiel hesitates is enough for the hunter to cut him off. “Nah, that was Raphael, that skanky witch came a few days later, Zephon about half a week after that.” There's a pained look that breaks through to the surface in Dean's face for half a moment, the way he gives Castiel a once over, as if he still can't believe the Seraph's still here, doesn't do anything for Gabriel's peace of mind.

Gabriel narrows his eyes, truly staring at his brother's Grace as much as he can in his current state. It's depleted a lot. Less so than Gabriel's, but the archangel can see still sore scars across that beautiful light, the damage must have been incredible to leave such marks, and no wonder if it was his wings that had been struck. It still looks damn painful, the Seraph is much weaker than he's letting on. Feigning nonchalance, the archangel shrugs stiffly. “Well, I'm sorry to say this little bro, but that spell work is some serious stuff. That's going to take some more time before it wears off.”

Nodding, the seraph eyes the bandage on his left wing with disdained resignation. “I concluded as much, although the spell feels weaker than it did when first cast, I don't believe I'll be able to unmanifest them for a few more weeks at least.”

There's a curious relief that flits past Dean Winchester's face. Gabriel decides he really, _really_ doesn't want to know about a messed up wing kink.

Castiel closes his book, turning towards his older brother with the air of _this is going to be one of those conversations_ and Gabriel can't stop the sigh quick enough.

The seraph eyes his wince of pain as if picking the older creature apart and examining the pieces closely. “Dean is right, Gabriel. You should be resting.” The hunter scoffs, because that's not at all what Dean was aiming for.

Pride shifts unhappily, but it's pointless arguing against something even he knows is true, still... “Nah, it's not that bad, besides it is hot down there in the middle of the day. And stop draining yourself dry, you're lighting a candle a both ends while holding it over a bonfire, bro.”

He can't help but laugh at the furtive glance Castiel aims at Dean for half a moment. The hunter scowls back down at him in intense aggravation that promises later confrontation, honestly Gabriel might feel a little guilty if the sight wasn't so damn funny. Busted, Castiel.

Almost snarling, Dean turns am icy glare to the archangel. “If you're well enough to laugh, you're well enough to help us read some of this crap. Sam mentioned you wanna find something that'll stop your dick brother, then make yourself useful.” The hunter chucks one of the tomes from Castiel's piles to the archangel and it's a tell to how weak he's become that he doubts he can react fast enough to catch it before it hits his bandaged chest.

He does catch it, somewhat surprisingly. The way Castiel palms achingly at his forehead gives the archangel a clue as to why the book seemed to slow down enough for him to do so; he glares up darkly at Dean. For his part, the hunter looks some what sheepish, the throw had been under-arm and lacked ill intent as much as it had forethought, Gabriel reluctantly let's it go without comment.

He'd come all the way up here to get out of the stuffy heat, not read tomes written by human children. But at least it was something to do. If they could find a weapon that could injure or weaken Raphael rather than kill him, Gabriel was taking that option and screw whatever the humans thought about it. Raphael had stepped so far out of line that Gabriel wondered if he'd even recognise his brother when they saw each other again. But despite the misgivings, the archangel's determined to try and talk at least _one_ of his older brothers out of doing something stupid before they could back the youngest archangel into a corner with a death the only way out.

It's something he's almost willing to pray for.

He gets the feeling it wouldn't be answered even if he tried.

**–**


	16. Hide and Seek: A Game Of Patience...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Winchester is a patient man, sometimes. But every guy has his limits...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Blood.

Dean knows he's not the most patient man to have ever graced the face of this miserable little rock. But, that said, he likes to think he has some crumb of restraint when it comes to irritating things. I mean, hell, he let the Cupid live didn't he?

That doesn't change the fact that Gabriel is going to die.

Dean's just waiting for a reason, for _absolutely anything_ to happen that will justify the murder of an archangel. Because, Christ _._

_This is the most stressful hunt ever_ .

Stupid Bobby and his stupid fraying patience and idiotic plan to kick them all out of the house. The gruff old hunter had had enough. He had the world's worst socially skilled,  _winged_ Seraph, two bickering Winchesters, one yapping Scottie under foot, and  _the most annoying creature to have ever existed_ all stuck in his house; No surprise he'd finally snapped. Great surprise he'd lasted as long as he did. 

The old hunter had gotten a lead about a potential weapon in the truly cosmic joke of a field wedged somewhere between Paris and Winchester, not far from Lexington, Kentucky. He'd demanded (with slight hysteria, if Dean felt like being pissy), that they all:  _'Get the hell outta my house!... S'like runnin' a damn Daycare!'_

So, with an astonishing amount of grumbling, the two angels, two hunters and one black rat with a dog complex, piled into the Impala and started the two day drive to Lexington.

Yeah, Gabriel. Trapped in the Impala. For fifteen hours of driving. Fucking Hell on Earth.

It doesn't help, it really doesn't, that Castiel's wings are still manifested. The left still has bandages swaddled around the middle of the 'forearm', and it needs to be stretched every few hours or tolerate Castiel twitching and fidgeting in pain for the rest of the journey. They haven't suddenly, miraculously, become any smaller; and the only thing worse than having a drained Gabriel stuck with them for two days is an impatient, injured Gabriel being constantly mushed into the passenger door by his little brother's not so little wing.

And God,  _Gabriel will not shut up._

Dean had spent so long gripping the steering wheel hard enough to hurt, that by the time they'd pulled over on one of Castiel's little stretch breaks, the hunter couldn't feel his fingers anymore. Not for the first time he regrets shooting down Castiel's offer to zap there instead.

The only positive to any of this, is that the archangel is still pathetically weak. It'd only been another four days since Gabriel had first emerged from the panic room before they'd left the Salvage Yard, and though he can go longer without crashing, he spends a good half of the drive asleep. And,  _damn_ , it's good to tease the bastard about practically snuggling into his brother's feathers. Apparently angels touching other angel's wings isn't such a big deal as mud monkeys touching, or maybe not considering how tight Castiel's expression has gone every time it happened. Whatever, it's freaking hilarious.

It's dark now. They'd pulled into their hotel an hour or so ago on the I-70, some old little place called the _Rodeway Inn._ The rooms are small, knee-high beds with some _really fugly_ brown squared patterned crap comforters, and a door that doesn't shut properly unless they dead lock it closed. It's the middle of summer, and with all the local lakes around the place is a little busier than Dean would prefer considering they have someone with a rather large wingspan in tow. But, if Dean has to drive any further listening to Gabriel's irritating commentary _something_ will end up with a bullet hole. 

Dean books two double rooms. He's not ashamed at how damn _cheerful_ it makes him chucking the other key at the archangel. He wonders absently if Castiel will even bother with the other bed, he's still sleeping at nights, but maybe the idea of sharing a room with his older brother may overpower that need tonight.

Unfortunately, it seems as if Gabriel isn't quite ready to give the Winchesters some peace and quiet, but at least now him and Sam seem to be talking about the case they're travelling towards.

Sam is sitting at the tiny little table pushed up against the wall opposite the door, laptop perched in front of him as he scans over sites about the potential weapons that could be causing their cases' deaths. The only thing they have to go on really, is some weird spear thing that one of the witnesses described in a statement. It'd been brought at a local auction from what Bobby could gather, and the new owner had gone on a killing spree, taking out his two neighbours in the middle of nowhere between their properties. It wasn't really all that much to be going on, but Bobby had looked set to blow and frankly, Dean had already been kindling a nasty case of cabin fever by the time the older hunter finally told them to hit the road.

Castiel is just setting Uzziel's small blue dog bowl on the floor, the little creature pouncing gleefully around his ankles until she can start hovering up the small puppy kibble, when Gabriel raises a question to him. “What do you think, bro? Olyndius' Silver Lance?”

The Seraph tilts his head and comes to stand beside where Dean's sat himself on the edge of the bed while the nerds get their freak on. Those ebony feathers brush against his sleeve and the hunter fights the ridiculous urge to reach for them. “...It is possible.”

Sam's eyes light up like a chick being asked out for the prom. “Like, Celtiberian war chief Olyndicus?”

Gabriel smirks from where he's sat across from the younger Winchester, “Spending way to much time on the History Channel there, Sambo?”

The hunter gives the archangel a sour stare.

Castiel frowns, mulling over their potential weapon culprit. “It may also be Xiuhcoatl's lightnin g, Cú Chulainn's G áe Bulg or even the Amenonuhoko, though that was one of the few left in the armoury before I was...grounded.”

That deep gravel wraps around those foreign words as naturally as it does around Dean's own name, and though not one word of that made any sort of sense to him, it once again strikes the Winchester that he's sitting next to an _angel_ , not just another stray hunter. Funny how much that still manages to slip his mind when he has the angel's wing brushing against his shoulder.

Sam's typing furiously on his keyboard, listing the words as quickly as he can, though there's a scrunch between his brows that's a tell he doesn't have a clue about how to spell some of it.

If he's totally honest, Dean doesn't really get why the hell they're doing any of this. They have Gabriel's sword now. Why were they still searching for any more weapons? The lack of information is making the hunter's instincts burn and itch, and he can see from the twitching of Castiel's wing tips that it's bothering him as well. Raphael must be moving, planning something. Killing all of those fledglings was a clear distraction as well as a threatening display of power. Shit is about to hit the fan, and they're sitting in an Inn far too close to Lawrence for Dean's comfort, looking for something they don't need.

Sighing, the older Winchester gets the impression that this geek out doesn't need his presence, and frankly, this hunter wants something to eat. Grabbing the Impala's keys from the desk, he shrugs on his jacket and glances at his brother. “You want anything?”

Sam barely takes his eyes from the screen, the pale light illuminating those stupidly intelligent hazel eyes of his as he scans the writing eagerly. “Something that isn't dripping grease.” He waves off vaguely. Gabriel pulls a face the same moment Dean rolls his eyes. It irritates the hunter for some reason.

“Whatever.” Stalking from the room, the Winchester makes his way down to the Impala sitting faithfully by their window, he's half tempted to find a local bar, but a sign pointing out a nearby Denny's changes his mind as he slides into the drivers seat.

_Finally,_ quiet.

The back passenger door opening suddenly has him sliding a hand round his back and pulling out the gun from his waistband. _Christ,_ he's got to get this guy a bell. “Damn it, Cas. Warn a guy!” The angel seems to have perfected the ungainly technique of folding such an enormous wingspan into such a tight space, but he still looks faintly unhappy at the constriction.

“My apologies.” He voices, sounding nothing of the sort. “Do you mind if I come with you?”

Dean stops short, turning on the seat and stuffing the gun back in his jeans. “Don't get me wrong, man. But, you sure that's such a good idea with the whole Birdman routine?”

Castiel gives him that 'squint of doom'. Dean's now something of an expert at identifying and decoding those little squints, this one means _confused_ , and is much preferred over _patronising,_ it's asshole cousin. “I am not a bird-human hybrid, Dean.” With a faint flicker, like heat shimmering above asphalt on a hot day, the wings vanish from sight.

Despite the ongoing topic, Dean turns the engine over and pulls out of the lot, following the signs across the I-70 and turning off down a smaller road. “What if some one bumps you? I gotta tell you, man. That's no fun.” Yeah, that had been Dean's fault, but eating wallpaper because of over stepping some weird consensual boundary wasn't something everyone would take with such amazing humour. Not to mention it really fucking hurt.

There's a long pause. “I'll wait for you here, if need be.”

The hunter glances up at the intense stare watching him in the mirror. “What? Need a break from big bro?”

Castiel's lips twitch faintly. “My brother can be...over bearing at times.” He admits somewhat dryly. “Though, I believe it will improve as time goes on.”

Dean snorts, hitting the turn signal and pulling into the dimly lit lot outside the diner. “Doubt that, Cas.”

The angel tilts his head. “Gabriel has been isolated for a long time, the novelty of accurately informed company will wear off with time, I hope.”

That pauses Dean half way through turning into a parking bay, and the Impala sits idling at an awkward angle as the hunter glances back at the angel. “The dude could snap up hot chicks in an instant, I don't think company has been a problem.” Pressing down on the gas gently, Dean parks up and slides out of the car, it's considerably weirder seeing Castiel  _step_ out of a car rather than zap when the huge black walls weren't actually visible. A new demanding urge to test what his eyes saw and brain knew hit him, and he curiously extended his left hand out to the space beside the angel.

Castiel eyes the gesture with a vague, off-handed confusion. Like he's too used to his human's strange movements that he doesn't even bother to question it any more. “Only temporary illusions. Angels were not built to live alone, Dean, not even archangels.” Understanding reaches those blue eyes just as Dean gives up and starts to withdraw his hand. The angel's shoulders shift lightly and a solid, warm, feathered weight presses against Dean's palm for a fleeting moment.

_Weird, weird, weird._

Clearing his throat, Dean drops the hand back to his side. “You telling me you guys just have like, what? constant slumber parties?”

Castiel merely frowns at him. “What's a slumber party?”

Dean sighs tiredly, “Sam's idea of a holiday, hair braiding, make-up and all. Come on, Cas, I'm freakin' starving out here.”

–

You ever get those irritating little snobbish people come up to you and spout off some crap sentence of supposedly inspired wisdom?

Like smells.

Those people that say _'you'll get used to it'_ when it comes to scents.

You'll get used to that overpowering lavender that practically bowls a man off his feet when walking into that little old lady's house of the corner of the street. You'll get used to the smell of the country, or freshly cut grass, or crisp new leather, or the sea.

Coroners and police officers have told him that _'you get used to'_ the stench of blood and death.

_Fucking Liars_ .

Every single one of them.

Rotting flesh, scalded tissue, wretched stinking bile. _Death._ It invades your sense of smell no matter what you do and no matter how long you're surrounded by it. Dean knows they're liars, because Dean's spent decades up to his elbows in it. The scent burns your eyeballs until your vision blurs behind salted tears that burn painfully as they slide into cuts marring your cheeks. It  _follows you_ , tailing you for the rest of your life, driving you half mad in your desperate insane dash to cover it with anything else. You'll remember and never really forget it. Sometimes he likes to dream what the world was like before the acrid stench destroyed his senses.

And sometimes he wishes he'd never have to dream again.

Because now there's blood on his boots.

There's blood on everything. The charred walls of Hell entombing him in with the howling soul strapped down on his rack. Dried and wet crimson droplets spattering every wall, every tool on his tray. It's thrashing mindlessly against it's restraints, rivers of blood oozing from the carefully calculated punctures on his pressure points, the nerve cluster at the base of his spine sliced through, his belly carefully cut and cauterised.

But now it's on his boots. He'd tried so hard to keep them free of it this time. He can imagine the rancid stink of death and Hell trapped within those droplets like he himself is trapped screaming in this room, it fills his nostrils and burns his eyes.

His grip around his hooked blade tightens.

The soul is roaring, the noise inarticulate. Dean is impressed his voice box still works, he's been screaming since he lost his appendix.

But mostly Dean is furious.

Because he tried. He tried so god damn hard this time, it wasn't enough. _Fuck it's never enough!_

He hates that smell. His heart beat is pounding in his ears because they told him _you'll get used to it_ and he'd clung to it life a fucking life raft and now he's _drowning in it and that soul will not stop screaming and there is blood on his goddamn boots._ His veins feel like they're boiling, anger seething through any self control left in his soul because they told him he'd get used to it, but he really actually fucking loves it. And that should be wrong but it isn't, but it _is_ , and it makes him so damn angry.

The soul won't stop screaming.

And there's blood on his boots.

Dean Winchester grips the blade tighter and carves out the bastard's voice box.

 _You'll get used to it_ they said, and God, they're so right. He misses it. He's missed this so much.

“ _-Dean-”_

The hunter jerks back into consciousness like a man drowning and breaking the surface. His skin is sweat-slicked and over-heated, the cheap ugly comforter tangled around his ankles and the chill of the cool air hitting his skin as he jackknifes to sit upright helps shock him away from the memories slamming their way into his mind's eye.

The motel room is dimly lit, few rays of dawns' light beginning to invade through the small gap of the curtains, enough for Dean to know it's rat's ass o'clock and his day is going to suck from morning till end. Movement catches his peripheral vision and his attention snaps to the figure suddenly way too close to the side of his bed.

“...Cas? What the hell, man?” He knows his voice is cagey, overly biting, but he feels enormously defensive like he always does after a visit from Hell's only T.V channel. The window is behind Castiel on the other side of the room where Dean can hear his brother snoring softly against his pillow, leaving him a mostly dark silhouette. Even so, he can still just about spot the concern in that clear blue. It _really_ pisses him off.

“I apologise for waking you...but I thought it was for the best.”

Huh. The angel actually sounds a little bit pissed himself, and not it the I will smite your ass if you keep giving me bullshit type, but the Holy Righteous kind that actually freaks Dean out a little bit. Yeah, Dean snapped at him but there wasn't any call for being a dick... Unless, Oh. “What have I told you about peaking in my dreams, Cas!” It's hard to sound adequately offended when whispering lowly, but Dean thinks he achieved the _I'm fucked off with you_ pitch pretty damn well.

Castiel's eyes don't lose their concern though. “I would never do that without your permission, Dean. You were reaching, subconsciously I think, for a way out of your memories of Hell.” His tone is pitched as low as Dean's, and with his damn voice it feels as if it's rattling through the hunter's bones.

Dean blinks at the words, the first half is reassuring in a weird kinda way and Dean's got squat to say in return, but the second bit is much easier for him to object to. “What? I was asking you to wake me? That's kind of a stretch to use your inner creeper, even for you, Cas. For once, man, fucking leave me alone.”

Irritation mars the angel's face, wings ruffling at his back. There is an agitated gleam in those blue eyes, this _means_ something to the Seraph, he doesn't usually push back, and Dean is so not doing this. “My Grace is still...bound to you... in a very vague sense, Dean. I r _emember_ Hell, sustained injuries there. Your nightmares of Hell plague your soul, and my Grace is drawn to help you now, just as I was drawn to protect you when I pulled us out... I would not see you suffer needlessly, Dean.”

The hunter tenses, there's far too much _personal_ in that insistent tone. It's stupid, because this is Cas and this isn't the first time the angel has woken him from a Hell nightmare, but it's the first time he's pushed Dean this far. There are times the older Winchester has been _burning_ to ask Castiel what he saw when he ripped Dean away from that damn scent of torture; what had he looked like? What the hell was up with this residual Grace cradled underneath that scarred hand print? Why the hell did he even bother in the first place? He gets that it was ordered that the Heavenly Host retrieve the righteous man, but Dean's _seen_ the look of disgust Castiel aims at anything close to Hell spawn... Why bother dragging something as tainted as Dean Winchester from the pit? Why didn't he just leave him there? It would have been so much _easier_.

“Still creepy.” He spits instead. Because Dean is a coward and takes the easy way out.

Castiel sighs heavily, wings falling a little to droop as if defeated, and apart from the obvious, it's a terribly human gesture. He looks tired, Dean realises. He'd been lending the angel another black pair of sweats and modified grey T-shirt to sleep in at nights, and all together in the early morning light the angel looks rumpled and world weary. Poor idiot had been asleep before those damn angelic spidey senses kicked in, and the hunter knows how hard it is for him to fall asleep. Knows how much Castiel needs it.

“How did you even get in here?” Dean blurts out by accident, filling that tense, worsted silence with more anger than he meant to. There's more than exhaustion in that defeated sigh and he is so not ready, nor up for, going _there_. Really, the door was locked, he already knows how Castiel got in, and it's a hell of a lot easier to get angry and shout at the Seraph for than it is to _talk_ to him about _this_.

The angel levels him a heavy, almost disappointed stare. “Goodnight, Dean.” He says instead, his voice is a strange, forced neutral, as if Dean has said the wrong thing one time too many and is simply giving in. He's finished trying.

Dean balls his fists, this isn't the first time Castiel has woken him like this over the past few weeks, it's not the first time he's tried to coax some _feeling_ s out of the hunter, albeit definitely never this straight forward before. It pisses the hunter off the bastard feels like he _wants_ to know, Dean can deal with his own damn demons by himself. He doesn't need some stupid, misguided angel's pity. “Whatever.” He spits venomously, slumping down against his pillow. “Fuck off, Cas.”

There's a loud beat of silence, before a harsh breeze whips around the room with an uneven beating of wings, and honestly him and Sam slept though that?

The older Winchester grits his teeth. Because he doesn't care the angel must be hurting and exhausted from two flights in one night, he doesn't care Cas' patience is turning into exasperation and that's only a few steps away from anger and giving up, and he definitely doesn't give a shit that he's pissed at himself that he didn't  _say_ anything when fuck knows he's sick of keeping it all locked inside his head.

He is Dean Winchester, and he doesn't care.

But he doesn't get back to sleep either in the now too silent room.

He breathes in the scent of burning flesh instead and glares holes into the cracking ceiling.

–

Gabriel loves sleeping.

It's one of the human quirks that once the archangel discovered how to do, he indulged in it a lot. He wasn't entirely sure why; And sometimes waking up sucked because there was a fine balance between feeling cosy and comfortable in the mornings and feeling haggard and groggy. But there's something about it that draws him in.

Angels see the world with senses the humans couldn't begin to understand. He can see the make up of the stars when standing in a dune in the middle of the Sahara, can touch the roar that makes up the temporal storms, can feel the spin of the Earth as it hurtles through space on the course his Father set it upon billions of years ago. He can see the world in dimensions the human mind can't comprehend, _feel_ it in a way their fragile paper-thin bodies were never designed to. He knows and feels and just _is_ in so many ways that over the millions of years Gabriel had grown so damn tired of the complexity. It's always sort of there, brushing against his mind, not dominating his senses all of the time but loud and constant enough that he can't really forget it either.

He'd been jealous of those little blind monkeys even before he deserted his home. They could _stop_ and rest and just feel a moment of peace. However false that peace may be. In the seconds before sleep swallows their souls.

Adapting to the sensation of falling away from consciousness took a little over seven months for Gabriel to get used to. He is light and power and unending energy, and taming it to find this fragile faux peace had not been easy. But it's been worth every moment of it.

He's less inclined to allow himself dreams. He'd discovered that angels are in fact capable of it. But they are raised warriors and battle is their niche. A lifetime of wars is not something even Gabriel would want to entrap himself into. Nevertheless, curling up in some fine expensive feather bed (warmed by a twin or, preferably, two) and letting that smothering complexity fall away was more addicting that any drug or substance that Gabriel has come across in his global travels.

This crappy hotel was far from the fine silks of the Middle East, but the archangel indulged happily in nosing down into his warm, if itchy, cocoon of blankets, and was content.

The room is quiet, softly lit by sunny morning light pouring in through the curtains beside his bed when he reluctantly opens his eyes. There's that same ache to his bones and Grace that has been haunting him over these few days, but tiny bit by tiny bit, the throb is gradually lessening. The bites of his ribs and cuts are healing slowly, the worst of them still covered. Castiel had helped them heal to a great extent, but Gabriel's pride had waved off his younger brother's aid some time ago. Now they are faint, echoes compared to the shattered _throb_ of his damaged Grace. It's returning, at a damn snails pace, sure, but returning nonetheless. 

At least it gives him a very genuine reason to sleep a lot more often.

He's halfway torn between doing just that or getting up. The nasty brown pattern of the comforter is a real damn eye sore this close. The walls of the place are an off white, mould growing under the windowsill and the corner of one worn curtain swaying gently gives away a small crack in the seals. The bed's not even that comfortable. The double pillow is a strange long round thing with a single cover which would be a right pain in the ass if your partner had a tendency to hog the damn thing. Rather luckily, or not depending on how you look at it, that's not a problem here. Everything is a little thread bare and there's a spring that's probably older than Sam Winchester digging painfully into the side of his left hip.

The longer he thinks about staying in the room, the more depressing everything seems to get.

Huffing, the archangel throws back the awful comforter and promptly sits up. Pancakes. That'll make the world right. He bets Raphael would put off ending the world if the pompous idiot actually sat his dumb ass down and ate some glorious home-made pancakes. Getting laid would probably help too. He's pretty sure he's still got the number to a brunette down in Gozo that could change his brother's mind, his sister too...

“Good morning, Gabriel.”

Castiel's monotone draws him out of his thoughts and he hadn't even noticed his baby brother is even in the room. He's perched on the edge of his bed, the thing neatly made and Gabriel isn't even sure if he'd tried to rest at all. Uzi is snoozing against his thigh, one paw resting against the top of her muzzle as if aiming to win the _world's most adorable picture_ award. At least one of the runts looks like they've slept. Castiel seems tense. Like, worse than normal. Sometimes Gabriel gets the urge to check and see if someone's drilled a stick of wood to his spine to keep him so damn uptight. His eyes look weary though, tired in more ways than one and the longer the archangel stares at the Seraph the more he notices the frayed edges to the bandages still swaddling his left wing.

_'Been flying then, Cassie?'_ He thinks bemusedly, It's not funny in the slightest. It's a wonder that wing of his is healing at all. There's a strained sense of anger clinging to the other's Grace, swirling just under the surface; frustration and a small blaze of hurt wrapping around each other. 

And they say angels don't feel.

“Morning, Bro.” He says cheerfully, jumping up from his bed. He pauses once upright, palming a hand at his head as a wave of light headedness strikes suddenly. He stares hard at the stained ceiling and wills it to pass. It quickly does, and he waves off the concerned, uncertain look his brother sends his way. “Like being

drunk without all the fun.” He mumbles dryly, stretching, apparently his injuries weren't too happy with him springing around like bored fledgling yet. “Pancakes, Cas!” He enthuses instead, eager to pull attention away from the weakness and whatever new thing has crawled into his brother's ass and died.

Castiel looks wary. Like Gabriel has spouted off the name to a monster Castiel has never heard of before and been told he has to go in blind and kill it. “Pan cakes?” He echoes sceptically, brows raising. Uzziel blinks awake, stretches and yawns widely beside him.

Sighing, Gabriel narrows his eyes, pulling out his t-shirt and jeans from where he'd stashed them and aiming to hit the shower; Necessary now his Grace was taking a holiday. Castiel is luckier, his is strong enough to offset most of his vessels functions. “What? You mean to tell me that moron and his brother haven't given you pancakes before?”

Castiel gives him a confused head tilt, the squint of his eyes managing to be terse yet _puzzled._ Apparently today was going to start with: _Attempting to be Tense,_ on top the agenda, italicized and everything.

Gabriel scoffs, scowling at the blasphemy here. Castiel has been trailing after these two humans for _two damn years_ and they can't even feed the poor idiot life's greatest pleasures. “Brother, we gotta talk about you letting those mutton-heads treat you like a machine. Who the hell hasn't had _pancakes_ before? There's like a whole damn day dedicated to them for Dad's sake! I mean c'mon, half the stuff that human of yours eats is a heart attack waiting to happen!”

“We don't need sustenance, Gabriel. You know that.” A brief, hesitant pause. “Under normal circumstances, at least.”

Rolling his eyes, he piles up his stuff and walks into the rooms' small attached bathroom. “It's not about  _need_ , Bro. It's about  _want.”_ He gets the impression the Seraph doesn't understand. Gabriel makes it his mission to change that, preferably, with extra syrup.

–

It only takes a glance at Dean's churlish expression for a grin to spread across the archangel's face that could rival that of a Cheshire cat. _The Rodeway Inns'_ small confines had been too much for Castiel to stretch his wings, and the constant twitchiness had gotten to the archangel. Gabriel had heaved his protesting brother out of the room, barely giving him the time to hide the enormous limbs from sight, and led them across the parking lot until they reached a wide grassy verge beside the deserted road that lead into the Inn's premises.

Picking somewhere sunny, the archangel dropped onto the grass with a huff and wince, and sprawls out on his back. His little brother stares at him in bemusement, standing beside where the archangel had stopped, looking more than a little out of place. “Sit down, Bro.” Gabriel had complained loudly, “you're making the lot look untidy.” It'd taken a moment, but the solid set of his brother's shoulders had cracked in resignation, and he neatly perched himself cross-legged in the grass at his side. Victory came with the warm summer morning breeze. Castiel had shifted his shoulders, a tickle of a stray feather brushing Gabriel's hair as the wings opened, and the tension in the Seraph vanished into the type of peace that only those that can touch the sky can ever truly understand.

The minutes stretched on and Gabriel almost fell back to sleep. This was way better than that horrendous, lumpy ass mattress.

Then Dean showed up.

Castiel's little finger paint on the boy's ribs made the hunters weird little voids in the archangel's senses. Little blank holes that you wouldn't notice until you were right on top of them and by that point you wouldn't need to sense them anyway. So the only reason Gabriel peeled open an eye to glance across the lot, was when he heard the slight rustle of his younger brother tensing slightly at his side.

Oh boy, Dean was _pissed_. Gabriel grins like a predator, making Dean angry is always a good way to start the day, especially if the human is being really unreasonable. But at least Gabriel knows now for sure that it was Dean, (and isn't it always) that had quite literally, by the sound of things, ruffled Castiel's feathers.

“Where the hell have you been!” Dean snaps blackly, stalking across the lot, the early sun throwing his shadow wide and dark. Sam's keeping a more leisurely pace, irritation with Dean mixing with a faint spark of relief in his hazel eyes. Clearly, Sam doesn't get what Dean's problem is and is hoping it'll blow over.

Gabriel waggles his eyebrows, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight, (damn his weakened Grace), and stares up at the hunter with an exaggerated mask of flattery. “Oh, now, Deano. You missed us?” He even flutters his eyelids.

A muscle in the hunter's jaw twitches.

_Mission accomplished._

“I'm stretching my wings.” Castiel says suddenly. Ocean blue eyes boring up into green. There's a hard line of irritation across his little brother's face, his tone almost a threat for Dean to tell him he's not _allowed_ to simply _be_ here without Dean's permission. It shocks Gabriel a little bit, he'd expected the Seraph to just mention Gabriel's little minor mild kidnapping across the lot, maybe accompanied by a light chastising look at the archangel, or alternatively a; “ _We didn't mean to worry you”_. But this is an unusual kick at Dean, the narrowed steel gaze rendering the atmosphere awkward outside of the pairs' little pissy world. Castiel usually tolerates Dean's crap, hell, Gabriel knows that Castiel quite often actually enjoys the exchanges; the situations being familiar and safe in a twisted kinda way. This however is a _fuck you,_ and quite probably the politest one this archangel's heard in a long time. It's only his surprise that keeps him from laughing in Dean's arrogant face.

_'Cas is having none of your shit today, kid.'_ Gabriel's knows from experience that it takes quite a bit too much jabbing at a sore spot for the Seraph to bite back, even passively like this, Gabriel is curious and almost certain Dean deserves it.

The hunter's eyes widen a little at the veiled sting, obviously expecting something a little more tame to take his frustration out on. If there'd been any doubt that Dean had been in the wrong between whatever the hell had gone down in the last few hours, it's gone when the older Winchester blows out a sharp, frustrated sigh of his own and grumbles a dark “whatever” at the spot just over the tired Seraph's shoulder.

Castiel watches the blatant backing down from his flared anger and relaxes a bit. He's still feeling the sting from the human's continued shoving him away, but he seems to reign in his ruffled pride and settles the matter into the past to be forgotten for now as he pushes himself to his feet.

Gabriel would be lying if he said he didn't feel the urge to stir the water a little bit more, if only to see if he could get the Seraph to really slam his foot damn down against Dean's crap, but at the same time,  _Pancakes.*_

The archangel follows his little brother to his feet with a flourishing bounce of his heels. “Well, anyway boys. Breakfast before business!”

Sam has that huge brow of his scrunched in confusion still over the sudden tension and it's quick settling, but he nods eagerly with Gabriel's plan, if only to get the other two idiots from staring quite so hard at each other.

–

Castiel isn't quite sure what Gabriel's obsession is with the small, sweetened, flat deserts that his older brother has spent the morning waving under his nose; the archangel rambling on about all the varieties of flavours of sauce that they can be coated in, apparently ranging from honey to Maple syrup, to melted chocolate, strawberry, cinnamon and a multitude of other creations that should, according to Gabriel, be considered some of their Father's finest work.

The Seraph had admitted, squashed into the corner of a booth in the same diner himself and Dean had visited the night before, that the smell had been enticing. His indulgence of human foods had up until this point been restricted to mixed types of pizzas, burgers, one cup of coffee, orange juice, blackcurrant juice, various and copious amounts of alcohol and Dean's fries.

He's fairly certain that Sam Winchester would drop a criticism or two about most of that list, recommending that such a collection _“Could hardly be called healthy”_ and that Dean Winchester is, in fact, _“A poor role model for lifestyle choices, Castiel.”_

Dean and Gabriel would disagree.

In fact, that was one of the few things that Castiel could imagine the human and archangel sort of agreeing on.*

But at the time, the unassuming plate of innocent looking pancakes that his older brother had shoved his way, drowned in honey, had hardly seemed lethal. He'd tried to shift his cramped, invisible wings more comfortably, eyed the food some more, and eventually taken a mouthful from Gabriel's proffered fork.

 _Sweet sweet sweet_.

He was completely taken off guard, the explosions of tastes was bewildering to the divine being, chewing cautiously and slowly under the trio's watchful eyes. It was sweet and thick and he licked his lip and wanted _more._ He quickly pirated an uncoated pancake from a squawking Gabriel's stack and took another bite. Disappointment ricocheted through him at the lacklustre taste the second time. It was still nice, but it wasn't the same.

His older brother laughed noisily, Sam smirking into his coffee and Dean trying to look less amused than he clearly felt. “Bro, you are a honey addict.”

Puzzled, he eyes the archangel as he grabs the honey pitcher and drowned his lone, bitten pancake in thick golden yellow syrup. Gabriel was right, it was the honey.

Between them, they try all of the sauces that the somewhat exasperated waiter agrees to deliver to the group. The Seraph discovers that he's not hugely fond of cinnamon, the potent taste making him scrunch up his forehead and has the archangel cackling like a madman. Chocolate, to Gabriel's great delight, also proves to be a winner, as does strawberry sauce. Maple syrup also passes the angel test easily, though Castiel easily declares the honey to be his favourite.

Between laughs, Gabriel orders another round of pancakes, this time filled with chocolate chips. They stay in that diner for a very long time.

–

The tension between Castiel and Dean ebbs across the morning, Gabriel distracting the Seraph by listing his favourite sweet concoctions he's come across throughout his time hiding out on Earth, promising to enlighten the younger angel's awakening sweet-tooth with far too much enthusiasm.

They collect Uzziel from where they'd left her in Castiel and Gabriel's hotel room, as well as the usual hunting gear from the human's, and hit the road. Gabriel spends less time  _ whining  _ about the humongous wing this time around, eagerly enthusing about the wonders of dulcia, and that the Romans “ _ Knew _ _ how to party, boys. Seriously, I spent like three weeks hungover in Latium. Man, Publilius Philo could drink me under the table.” _

Which seemed to instigate a disapproving Castiel into an argument about interfering with the Roman history, and “ _Little wonder the Plebeians failed_.” Dean was certain Sam was going to pass out before they arrived.

Mercifully. Gabriel dozed off at his younger brother's side.

It's coming up to six when they roll away from Highway 60 and cruise around Lexington, on the prowl for a cheap motel to dive in for the night. It's perfect weather for the drive, sun lowering but still warm, the day edging away from the dry heat towards comfortable and calm. There's no wind and barely a cloud on the horizon, Gabriel's still dozing and Castiel is leaning against his invisible wing and door, watching the world of Kentucky through half lidded eyes; small evidence of a poor nights rest.

Dean has the windows rolled down, Sam's slouched in his seat, there's a stupid quirk to the corner of his mouth and Dean would have called him out on it if he didn't get it. It's calm, quiet, warm.  _Safe_ . Reminiscent of the days before John died, before Sam died, before Jess. Back when Hell was just a nightmare instead of memory. Back when Heaven was only in Sam's prayers.

There's  _Down South Jukin'_ playing softly in the background, a warm breeze running though his Baby, his brother beside him, Castiel and Uzi behind him and a  _quiet_ Gabriel.

The hunter's almost disappointed when they come across the  _Red Roof Inn_ in  _Lexington South_ . He's about to drive on after a glance at the place but,  _fuck it,_ Dean takes Uzziel's sleeping yap as a sign and pulls into the lot. The three story building is cream with red painted doors, white rails on the small overhanging balconies and covered in a red tile roof. The lot is surrounded on all sides with slightly dried out grass and young looking trees, the lot filled with a loose scattering of various types of cars. Dean spotted signs for a nearby University earlier and isn't surprised to see a small smattering group of students on one of the long patches of brown-green grass. Guess they missed Bluegrass season then.

Check-in passes smoothly. He scribbles some illegible names down in the sign-in book and takes the two room card-keys back to the Impala. Sam raises his eyebrows when Dean comes back, eyeing up the building and the surrounding area sceptically. “Bit classier than our usual digs?”

Dean shrugs under his duffel bag as he chucks the other one to his brother. “New credit cards, 'sides, I think last nights mattress screwed up my spine, dude.”

Sam was right, this was way pricier than their usual haunts. Just under two hundred bucks just for the night, but the hunter is sick of stains and sticky sheets, broken air conditioners and crappy showers. Just once, he'd like a normal hotel room. Besides, the quiet sigh of relief from their resident diva queen with wings is a million times better than the ranting that had followed the last place. The rooms were swankier than Dean was expecting. The two standard double rooms are almost identical, side by side and inverted from each other. Hardwood panelled floors, white walls on three sides, red on the other. En suites, small flat screen T.V, cream comforters with red and white patterned runners, AC, and freaky looking overhead wall lamps.

It isn't ideal for hunting really. Too many white surfaces to be stained with oil and blood, the desk long, but not really designed for more than one person to be at to discuss case details. But damn it all if Dean didn't nearly cry after a glance at the shower. Gabriel snorts at him, dragging his angelic brother next door to check out their own room like an excited toddler pulling at a weary, resigned parent.

–

Tracing the supposed weapon is gratefully easier than they'd feared it'd be.  Twenty minutes out, on a farm wedged between  _ Winchester  _ and  _ Paris _ , the Gallagher's lone surviving member had brought an old weapon relic in a local auction and two days later killed the William sisters. It takes an evening visit by Sam and Dean to Jack Gallagher's old house and hacking into his laptop to find angry emails to and from Jack and the William sisters over a land dispute between the two properties for them to guess the motive behind the murders. Dean hates the whole thing. This is not their usual gig. They're not hunting a creature or some messed up spirit, just an old relic and dealing with a local squabble. It sends his hackles up even further and he is practically growling by the time they get back to the  _ Red Roof _ with a hoard of crappy take out diner food.

Gabriel scowls distastefully when he spots it but Sam's warning stare miraculously has him swallow the complaint.

Dean glares hatefully anyway, stalking across the room and ignoring Uzziel's wagging tail and uneasy puppy eyes that get wider the tenser the room gets. “Remind me. Why are we here again?” He snaps, staring at the archangel slouching all over Sam's bed flicking through the T.V listings.

Gabriel pauses, eyebrows raising at the thick tone of voice. “Calm those jets, Deano. Big, shiny Nuke? Ringing any bells?”

The hunter's eyes darken. “Who the hell cares? That colossal douche upstairs is probably two steps from letting those other two dicks out, and we're in freakin' Kentucky for  _ no _ damn reason!”

Stepping away from the corner of the room, Castiel cuts in before the fierce expression on the injured archangel's face could manifest into harsh words. “Dean. Raphael is too strong for us to take on, he'd kill us before we could make a move. We need something that will distract him, will weaken him.”

The older hunter screws up his leftover wrappers into a tight ball and launches it across the room. “You got Gabriel's sword! The longer we wait for this, the quicker crap's gonna hit the fan!”

Gabriel himself sat up. “Sorry, Deano. He'd kill me before I'd kill him with my blade. Thing is, archangel swords are particular, I don't have the power left to kill him in one hit. It'll take two at least. Cassie's right, we need something else to weaken him with.”

Like that's supposed to make him feel better? He can practically feel Raphael's eyes staring at that damn cage. He can't deal with the apocalypse again, he just can't. The desperation rises in his veins just thinking about it. Old fears crawling over his skin and sinking into his chest.

“Dean, Gabe's right. We need something else.” Sam offers quietly, knowing it won't do any good to draw this out any further. “If Raphael was about to break the cage, there'd be all sorts of signs right?” He adds, turning to the two angels for help. “Like, omens and stuff, electrical storms, that sort of thing?”

Castiel tilts his head, still staring at Dean from across the room. “It's likely.” He agrees. “The power required to break Hell's barriers alone will trigger omens, I expect I myself caused several a few months ago. And Raphael is considerably more powerful.”

Not good enough. Not nearly good enough. Dean wants to shout it to the rafters, through the roof and into the sky. But there's too much truth in those words. They need  _more_ if they're to see this through. And at the moment they are severely lacking in the badass department. They have a puppy, two hunters, and two recovering, weakened angels. Raphael is more likely to die laughing if they showed up on his doorstep now.

It hits him suddenly that Gabriel said  _kill_ rather than  _restrain_ . There's a tightness to the archangel's features that shows that he's just realised himself. The angel scowls darkly, turning away from the Winchester and this conversation is officially over as far as Gabriel seems to be concerned.

There's nothing else to do. For all that Dean wants to kill the asshole upstairs. They wouldn't even know where to look for him. Castiel still can't fly himself to Heaven, not to mention taking them all along too; Dean has a horrible flashback to that  _stupid_ time travel disaster with Anna and Michael and strikes  _Castiel Pressing his Limits Again_ firmly off the list. Gabriel, as far as Dean knows, is even more grounded than his younger brother. And unless Raphie leaves Heaven, there's no way to get at him.

It grates and burns and it's just raging frustration under Dean's skin. But the others are right. This damn weapon hunting crap is their best shot.

Dean's certain; it's never going to be enough.

–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit torn about whether or not to add Gabe to the tags, would that ruin the surprise? Does anyone think I should?  
> Also, Thank you for the lovely comments, I love everyone of you!


	17. Long Time No See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One insane supernatural unwanted tag along is more than enough for this Winchester, thank you very much...

Jack Gallagher is a scrawny little man. All floppy dark brown curls, deep set grey eyes, long limbs and short fingers. He's older than Dean, but there's a skittish nervousness to his eyes that makes him seem younger, naïve and jerky.

Hardly cold blooded jealous killer.

The man has a stutter when he talks, juddering in his metal chair, cuffed to the table as Dean and Sam interrogate him under the guises of Federal Agents Pierce and Hunnicutt.

“ _I-I di-didn't mean t-to. I di-didn't mean t-to.”_

He's been repeating it on and off, desperation mixed with crushing guilt.

“You stabbed them with a _Lance_ Mr. Gallagher.” Dean deadpans. He feels kinda sorry for the guy, but he's not sure if he's just a cracking psycho or if the “ _Lance_ ” had any mojo of it's own.

Sammy gives him a stern bitchface, one of those that promises later complaints and Dean rolls his eyes. He's not in the mood for Sam's crappy morality, lawyer lectures.

“ _I-I di-didn't mean t-to.”_

Sighing, the hunter rubs a hand over his tired eyes. He's too fed up to be angry with the guy. “Okay. Fine. You didn't mean to. Fine. Just tell us where you got the weapon.”

Gallagher twitches, shuddering harder for a moment and staring blankly at the metallic table top. “Auction. It w-was a mi-mistake. I got c-confused. I-I di-didn't mean t-to.”

Sam tilting his head catches the corner of Dean's vision. “You  _accidentally_ brought an ancient relic? Why didn't you say something at the auction house?”

Jack nodded carefully, as if frightened they'd pounce on him for moving so much. They barely see it on top of the nervous twitching. It's a damn good thing they didn't bring Castiel with them. “Di-didn't want to c-cause t-trouble. B-but... _I di-didn't m-mean t-to._ ”

This is going nowhere fast, clapping Sam on the shoulder, Dean nods at the door. “Well, thanks for the help, Jack. Hang in there, man.”

Less than a minute later they're climbing into the Impala's familiar warmth, faithfully waiting patiently in the parking lot for them. “So what do you think, Sammy? Hardly seems bad to the bone.”

“No way he did that by himself.” Sam agrees blankly, loosening his tie. “You think that the weapon has some influence over the user's intentions? Like a cursed object?”

Dean shrugs, glancing over his shoulder and pulling out on the main road, rolling down the windows afterwards to coax the stuffy summer air out. “Not the first time we've dealt with weird-ass items affecting people. Hopefully Team _Holier-Than-Thou_ can tell us something actually useful.” Christ knows, it would be a first.

–

The two angels are waiting for them back at the _Red Roof Inn._ Dean's been hoping to get the job done before checkout at midday, and they only have three hours to go before he has to re-book the room and they can't really afford another night in paradise. “ _Please_ tell me one of your spidey senses are tingling.” He greets as a whole as he barges noisily into their room.

It's surprisingly messy for two angels. Well, some of it is. Castiel's bed is clearly the one closest to the door, looking all the world as if no one's slept in the damn thing, and the amount Dean's fished out for them to stay here, the Seraph better damn well have done. Uzziel's bowl is on the hardwood floor next to the window, half-full with lukewarm water, a few stray drops leading away from the bowl either where the angel spilt some putting it down (unlikely), or where the mutt had dripped all over the floor. There's a miniature tennis ball Sam had brought a few weeks ago in front of Gabriel's sprawling mess of a bed, accompanied by a lone pillow abandoned in the middle of the floor, and the archangel's glaringly red tennis shoes.

The two angels themselves are perched on Gabriel's unkempt bed, staring at the T.V screen with intent eyes. Both ignore the Winchesters as they arrive, and Dean vaguely recognises the movie just as the credits start to roll. “Dude,  _Hancock?”_

Gabriel glances past his little brother with a wide grin. “Been dead for a while, Deano. Just catching up on the world of entertainment.”

Sam drops his laptop bag on Castiel's bed and starts pulling off his suit jacket. It's far too warm even with the air conditioning to be wearing a suit of all things. “Didn't that come out like, last year?”

The archangel shrugs, wincing faintly. “You weren't the only ones to have a busy year, Sambo. End of the world parties tend to suck up a guys movie nights. If you know what I mean.”

“Ugh, God. Brain Bleach.”

Castiel finally takes his eyes from the credits and the rap song playing over the words. “It has an...interesting story line. I didn't understand much of it.” He finally settles on, stretching his ebony wings as far as the room and it's occupants would allow. Sometimes Castiel reminds Dean of a blackbird, and most other times a stuck up house cat. The angel doesn't seem to notice the hunter's eye roll and stands.

The archangel beside him snorts out a laugh. “Bro, you were asking me boring ass questions the whole way through, did you get _any_ of it?”

The seraph glares hard, Dean recognises the defensiveness of his eyes. “Some. You've been here longer than me, Gabriel.”

Throwing up his hands in surrender, Dean gets the impression this particular argument has happened before and would drone on and on unless he changes the subject. “Jeez, you sound like an old married couple. Forget the stupid movie, answer the damn question.”

The seraph glances back at him, there's a thin air of charged tension, the issue the night before last still hanging unresolved in the background, coating words in fuzzy, uncomfortable static. “We can't sense anything.” His tone is carefully empty.

“Great.” Sinking into the lone motel chair, Dean palms at his face. They haven't found out _why_ Jack Gallagher had killed the William sisters, well, not beyond the dispute over the land between the properties. That's a motive, but the hunter is certain that _something_ was driving the guys actions as he did it. The guy looked like he'd pass out in a job interview, let alone commit a double murder with a _Lance_ of all things. “Well, guess we're breaking into the evidence vault later. Cops in this place are super picky over their stash. Wouldn't let me and Sam near it without some paper work.”

Castiel tilts his head. “It's in the same place as the station?”

“Yeah, they got some storage in the back of the compound, we need to get that thing before anyone else touches-” The seraph's wings flare out and up, cutting the hunter off mid-speech; There's a split-second of tension, then the enormous appendages come down with a sharp beat of bitter wind. By the time they uncover their eyes, the angel is long gone.

Dean's on his feet, halfway through voicing a annoyed  _damnit, Cas!_ When a second blast of fierce wind has Uzziel cowering behind Sam's legs and the trio covering their faces.

Just as quickly as he left, The seraph is back panting in the centre of the room, wings rising and falling in time with his breaths. But other than that, no huge red stain spreads across the bandage on his left wing, and he's not swaying either. Dick, giving the hunter a heart attack for no reason.

Gabriel breaks the stunned silence with an amused whistle. “You even land in the right building, Castiel? You've barely got a feather in the right place.”

Glaring tiredly, Castiel straightens, tapping the bottom of a long wooden spear looking thing onto the hardwood floor to get their attention off of his ruined wing. It looks like a boring museum spear, an old shaft of plain wood, capped with a relatively short, sharp looking blade at the end. Stepping closer, Dean can see small patterned engravings of swirling patterns on the blade, but more than that, he can see the dim glow where Castiel's hand holds it upright.

“Well this is a serious anti-climax, man. It's a stick with a toothpick glued to the top.” Dim glow or not, it's hardly impressive.

The seraph quickly pulls it away from where Sam's curious fingers had gone to feel the texture of the wooden shaft. “This  _is_ Olyndicus' Silver Lance. It's old, but not tremendously powerful. It was given to Olyndicus, a Celtiberian war chief that caused a rebellion, though he was defeated several thousand years ago. That's what the Lance does, influences the dedication put into one's beliefs.”

“So. Jack Gallagher, shy-guy extraordinaire, is too nervous to do more than reply to angry emails; but when the dude accidentally buys this thing, he suddenly hulks out?”

Castiel predictably tilts his head in confusion, just as Gabriel mutters; “How the Hell do you  _accidentally_ buy an ancient Celtiberian war lance? _”_

“It would've driven his desire to resolve the issue that angered him into an unproportional level, it's lucky he only killed two people.”

“Yeah.” Sam scoffs darkly. “ _Lucky.”_ No matter how different he may be to when he first met them, Castiel still had ways to go on the empathetic front.

That seems to bother Castiel more than Dean using references he knows the angel won't understand and the wings puff up against his shoulders. “You shouldn't come into contact with it, it's dangerous enough just to humans unaware of the supernatural truths.”

Just as Castiel's face settles into a faint, offended scowl, Dean peers at the faint white glow under the angels fingers mistrustfully. “What about you, Cas? You aren't exactly running around with your batteries fully charged.” And seriously, if Castiel is worried about  _hunters_ playing with this thing, Dean is freakin' nervous as hell about a  _Seraph_ doing it. Fucking terrifies him actually. Castiel being on their side is something Dean tries to pretend he doesn't take for granted. That Seraph is something this hunter is damn glad he hasn't had to hunt.

It stabs at his pride a little, but Dean's not afraid to admit it to himself. Sam may drop faint teases nowadays about how edgy they used to act around the then Power, but it's never really gone away. Not really. It's still there; rearing it's ugly face when things get hairy and the angel appears to fight back. Dean's not too vain to admit that sometimes Castiel still scares the crap out of him; even if it is aggravating and really does something to a guy's self esteem. But it's deep-boned and instinctual, raw and fierce. It's not something you can just switch off because you want it too stop.

But it happens so rarely nowadays that Dean plays it off when it does, he knows that Sam gets just as nervous when the sparks start flying. Most of the time, Castiel is just Cas; There or not there, blaringly ignorant of most things human and placid to a degree almost pacifist, until provoked that is. Not to mention so covered in emotional red tape it's no wonder the guy spends most of his time tense as a bow string.

But there are times that Dean has to fight every guttural scream of his instincts to step back, to give the angel room, to get out of the line of fire. It's usually when the Seraph drops that sword of his and starts swinging, the silver striking like a viper, enough supernatural strength to kill all of them with a thought – with a full tank, of course. It's entrancing; and infuriatingly, terrifying. He is an angel; An  _ I Can Throw You Back Into Hell, Angel _ . It's times like those that Dean's nerves will have his fingertips twitching anxiously, itching to back away; don't prod, don't provoke, just shut up and be small. Avoid the crumbling buildings, hurricane winds, electric and ozone in the air, the earth trembling beneath their feet.

Of course, Dean is a hard-ass and his mouth's never really listened to his instincts anyway. But there are moments, even in their small arguments, when sometimes the angel will  _ look _ at him, and Dean will fight to remain still, will fight hold his nerve.

If Dean ever had to compare Castiel to something, it would be thunder. Quiet, calm. But the second his angel starts rumbling; angered or threatened or just plain pissed off, you know lightning is going to rain down on your ass.

It's ridiculous, he knows. Cas has never hurt Dean -for no reason anyway- not even when he was a robotic dick back in the early days. And seeing him sleeping with Uzi tucked into the curve of his chest strikes up something the complete opposite to instinctual fear. He's just  _ Cas _ , Dean's socially inept, generally calm, patient,  _ mostly  _ gentle, loyal angel;  _ Family _ .

Until you piss him off. Or hurt the Winchesters. Seriously, Dean's not sure whether or not to be gratefully smug, or nervous as hell, when the Seraph rocks up to smite some asshole of the week when Hell's kitchen has gotten too hot and someone's locked the door on them. Then he's just downright scary.

Even now, wearing Dean's old black T-shirt, two slits in the back, and a dark pair of plaid sweats (also Dean's), the idea of Castiel being affected by that Lance and going all Terminator again, even when recovering from injuries, scares the crap out of him.

The Seraph sends him a bored look. “It's not strong enough to influence an angel, Dean. Even ones as...restricted as me and Gabriel are.”

And, yeah. That is definitely what Dean classes as relieving news. But this revelation is not at all helping his mood any. “Well, can you at least tell who brought the thing here? I mean, an ex-angelic Nuke doesn't just get stocked in the local Walmart. It got into that auction house somehow, and me and Sam checked the listings. It was donated anonymously a few days ago. Cause as far as I can see, this thing isn't gonna be enough to stop Raphael. So, tell me how this is _not_ a wasted journey?”

Gabriel sighed the sigh of the condemned. “Deano, you are one empty bucket of fun, you know that?”

“Gabriel.” Castiel admonishes tightly, still watching Dean's annoyed scowl deepen. “This lance has power enough. But you're right, it's not enough to weaken an archangel. But, I should be able to trace the last owner.”

Both of the Winchesters grimace at that. “Wait, should?” Sam's eyebrows are at his hairline, it's his  _you're joking, right?_ face and Dean couldn't agree more.

The Seraph squints at them sternly, Dean can't tell if it's borne from annoyance or fatigue but he doesn't really care either way. He's had enough. “And what if you can't, huh? What, we all just go sulk back to Bobby's? Grab a couple deck chairs, roast some s'mores and sit back and watch the world burn because we can't find one of your damn Nukes?” He spits the words at the blue eyes staring back at him. They've gone icy.

There's a moment of silence, Uzziel watching nervously from her spot behind Sam's enormous sasquatch feet. Castiel's wings glint in the yellow wall lamps, they've puffed slightly, twitching minutely against the Seraph's back. It's not like the calm, amused movements the humans are used to. It feels like wrath. Like Castiel is putting effort into keeping them still. The serrated edges look decidedly sharper. 

Dean doesn't care. He's done with the whole apocalypse business. All he wants is a week off. Some place he can drag his pain in the ass, weed of a brother, pick up some chicks, hit a few bars and remind himself who the hell he is. He wants to ditch the demons, the monsters, and most importantly, the angels. He wants to get in the Impala and drive to where he wants to go for the first time in months. He is tired of being someone else's chess piece; he hasn't wanted to be on this messed up board for a long, long time. Castiel and his stupid war be damned.

Then Castiel turns sharply on the spot, eyes up Gabriel still watching them from the bed with his stupid eyebrows raised, and holds out the Lance lengthways. “Help me with this, Gabriel.” The archangel glances round the tightly folded ebony wings to Dean with a strange venom in his gaze, it surprises the hunter, those amber eyes promising retribution and its a weird thing to see from Gabriel of all people considering it's Castiel that should be throwing a bitch fit.

But the short-ass shrugs his shoulders and pats the bed beside him as if welcoming the taller angel into his house. “Take a load off, little bro.” Those damn whiskey eyes glare back at Dean. “World ain't gonna save itself.”

The hunter feels like he's lost something important.

–

It's been an hour. A freakin' hour since the broken-brigade sat their holy asses down and started hovering their hands over that damn stick.

Whatever though right? It's not like there's a reason to rush.

He'd hoped cleaning the guns would be enough to settle his mind. Sam's gone to hit up a pharmacy to try and restock some of their medical kit. A civilian buying that much stuff usually attracts a few questions so they usually end up splitting it between several places over a few towns to keep suspicions down.

Despite his hopes, Dean can't tune out the irritation as he methodically scrubs each gun clean, putting them back together and reloading them while the others get their holy freak on next door. He's just done with it. It's been a while since the dreams of Hell started wearing him down like this, Castiel getting ripped to pieces by meat hooks had changed their tune for a while, but more than anything, it seems to have just knocked a few of the older memories loose again. Gabriel showing up didn't help matters at all.

This stupid weapon plan isn't helping either. There's nothing that Dean can actually  _ do _ this time, and it really rubs him all the wrong ways. He's just ferrying two flightless angels over the damn country hoping to stumble on what seems like a childish fairytale. They're just waiting for Raphael to blow the house down and let the two biggest dicks in creation out of their playpen. And then everything will happen all over again, Sam will have Lucifer on his ass, Bobby'll probably die and end up in Hell the way his deal is going, Cas will get himself again. And Dean doesn't really care what happens to the other archangel. Okay. Maybe a little bit, but only a little bit. Because that asshole is totally not sticking around. Who the hell knows what would happen to Uzi; she'd probably just stare to death.

So what's the point of any of this?

Throwing the last gun back into his duffel, the hunter sighs wearily. Standing, he grabs the card key to the room and the Impala's key chain and heads out to the parking lot. It's approaching eleven and they're running out of time before he has to book another night. He catches sight of Sam crossing the lot towards the main door before the giant seems to spot his brother too; laden with two plastic bags, one in each hand, Sam crosses towards him and God, he's got that face on that warns they're going to have to  _ discuss _ things.

“No.” Dean declares as Sam comes round to the trunk at his side and pulls out the worn medical bag to stuff his supplies into.

The moose tilts his head questioningly. Asshole. He knows exactly what. There's a half second silence until he hears an intake of breath and  _ here we go... _

“So...things a bit...uh, tense back there...”

Damn kid, damn feelings.

“When?”

Sam's bitch-face is supreme, at least an eight out of ten. The older Winchester should start carrying around score cards to hold up. “You know when. Dean, c'mon, man. You've been wound up since Bobby's. Not to mention yesterday.” Even the tone of voice has the older hunter rolling his eyes.

“Oh, come on, Sam. Really? We're gonna do this now?”

Chucking the blue bag back into the trunk, Dean glances around the empty lot before restocking the armoury as Sam turns to face his brother properly. “Yeah, Dean. We are. What was with the whole “ _ Watch the world burn _ ” speech? And you've been on Cas' case since yesterday morning.” 

Frustration roils up in the hunter's chest like an angry fire and he grabs the last sawn-off and throws it down violently. “You want the truth?” He snaps, reaching up to slam the trunk. “Fine. We're stuck out in the middle of nowhere, with two pretty useless angels, looking for something which  _might_ work and we're even less likely to find. Not to mention actually get a hold of. We're on an archangel's hit list, with  _The Apocalypse: Take two_ counting down on the clock. So you tell me, Sam. What the hell am I supposed to be cheerful about!?”

Sam gives a small dry scoff and shakes his head, idly watching a crappy old Ford chug it's way out of the Inn's lot.

“What, Sam!?” Dean growls, he is so not in the mood for this stupid analysing junk.

“You're so full of crap sometimes, Dean. You know that?”

The mutter is not what the older hunter expected to come out of his brother's mouth. “Come, again?” He presses angrily, if Sam wants an argument, he'll damn well get one.

“Just. Stop, all right?” Sam's face morphs into the frustrated concern that only ever seems to be pointed at him. “I get it, Dean. The world's ending again, and it scares the crap outta you.” A growl rattles out of Dean's chest but Sam cuts him off too quickly. “Well guess what? You're not the only one. So stop being so damn selfish.”

The older hunter pauses, surprised. This is totally not where Dean expected this conversation to go. There's no way in hell that Dean's scared. Okay, scratch that. The thought of Michael and Lucifer walking around terrifies him more than anything else they've ever seen. But selfish? “Explain that to me, huh? How exactly am I the bad guy here?”

Sam's expression softens a little, it's as reassuring as it is annoying. “You're not the bad guy, Dean. But you think you're the only one who knows what's riding on this? Christ, Dean. This scares the holy hell out of me. You'd be nuts not to be scared stupid.”

“So what exactly should I being doing then, Sam!? You know, since you seem to have all the answers” And Christ, Dean is so tired of this.

The taller Winchester stares down at him, eyes determined. “ _Talk_ to me, man. You've been having Hell nightmares again-” 

That ruffles Dean's feathers. “Don't you dare brin-”

“Don't deflect, Dean! You're tired, and angry. And you have every right to be. Nothing about this is fair. But stop wallowing in it.”

Wallowing in it? So that's what Dean Winchester's been doing for the last week? “I'm not freakin' wallowing, Sam! What exactly do you want from me, huh?”

Sam takes a step towards him, purposefully gearing up the puppy eyes to an illegal scale. “Stop shoving everyone away. We're all scared. Hell, I don't think Cas has been able to sleep for days, spotted him out here last night, pacing. Even Gabriel's been quieter. You don't think that we know what's the end game if we fail? We all know, we're all tired. We all want it to stop. And all that blaming crap you're throwing at Cas...”

Dean had had a large enough problem dealing with the verbal blows Sam was giving without dragging the Seraph into this. “What the hell, dude. All right...Fine. So maybe I've been a bit of an ass lately, but blaming Cas? Really?”

His brother just sighs in frustration. “Listen, whatever the hell happened, I don't care. Not my business. But Cas can't handle this kinda shit right now.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean gives his brother a sour look. “He's a big boy, Sammy. He can take care of himself.”

Another sigh. “That's what I mean, Dean. You've gone from what feels like friends to frosty acquaintances in days. So something happened, boohoo. Deal with it. I wasn't gonna say anything about it, but Cas is  _tired,_ Dean and what's happening is not his fault, so stop acting like it. They're both just trying to help.” 

He stares until Dean gives a low sigh. He knows that he'd shoved Castiel hard that night after the nightmare. But he gets the impression that that's not just what this is about. Sure, he's been a bit harsh on him, but like he said, Castiel is a resilient little bastard for a nerd. He can handle it, it's not like it's the first time he's snapped at the angel. Grumbling, the hunter started walking back to the building, Sam falling into step beside him. “Whatever, man.”

They barely get their feet inside their room's door when the one next to it opens and Gabriel swings round the frame behind them. “Pack up kiddies, time to go.”

Sam grabs one of the lore books from the desk and shoves it into his duffel as the archangel peers up at them eagerly. “Go? Go where? You find the angel behind this?”

Gabriel nods his head so fast it's a wonder he didn't snap his neck. “Oh, yeah! Finally, someone with a sense of humour on the horizon.”

Dean pauses warily. That would have been reassuring coming out of anyone else's mouth. “So you know this guy? Don't get me wrong, but every angel Cas has ever dropped in with, has at one point, tried to kill us.” There's a _you included_ tacked on to the end of that and they all hear it loud and clear.

Gabriel's grin makes all the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand on end. “Life's too short for grudges, Deano.”

The Winchesters make a show of sighing, and okay, maybe it's just Dean, and hurriedly pack up their stuff; the older hunter glad he doesn't have to fork out the extra money again for the second night, and file out of the room. Or at least, Sam does. Gabriel catches Dean's arm as he passes by, Sam disappearing into Castiel's room and the door shutting automatically behind him. There's a darkness in the archangel's gaze and Dean can't stop the sigh. “Jeez, don't bother. I already got the speech from Sammy.”

Gabriel's eyes narrow up at him, his grip is strong and unwavering and maybe Gabriel's not as weakened as Dean had first thought. “You coaxed a hurricane down from the sky, you arrogant dick.” The powerful words ripple uneasily down the human's spine. “So start treating him like one. We are not your weapons, Deano.” His voice is low, there's a playful undertone that the hunter doesn't like at all. It's not the humour of a bored Trickster, it's the low warning drone of a vengeful Archangel. There's an upbeat chortle, and the archangel waltzes from the room.

Stillness takes over for a few moments, the space previously swallowed up by a glowering archangel's presence, and the atmosphere vanishes with him; it leaves Dean with a vague uncertainty in his bones. The hunter shakes his head, rolls his eyes and mutters. “Okay, then. Not at all threatening.” And follows the angel's path out of the room.

Sam was right, Castiel does look tired. The lines around his eyes seem deeper, the skin more bruised. There's a faint lower set to the two huge limbs at his back, the feathers duller and most look ruffled, as if they're not sitting right. The wings twitch occasionally as if the over-turned feathers itch and irritate, but the Seraph makes no move to fix it. Dean has wondered on and off if Castiel had simply recovered enough Grace that he could pull through the nights without having to rely on sleep, but was still trying to overcome the slight lag between the two. Now he's guessing probably not.

If he feels as tired as he looks, Castiel doesn't mention it or let it show in his eyes. In fact, there's a relief in that blue that Dean's surprised to see. Guess both of the angels know this mystery member of the Halo-patrol. “So, where're we heading?” Dean should earn an award for managing to keep the frustrated bite out of his tone.

Gabriel huffs out a laugh as Dean pulls the Impala's keys from his pocket. “Sorry, Deano. Easter, Pennsylvania. And that is another nine hour trip I am not taking in that box of yours just to repeat it on the way back. Cas here is going the old fashioned way.”

The Winchester pair eye up the Seraph with wary concern. “You think you can fly that far and back?” Sam asks, trying to be off-handed as he grabs his laptop bag which he'd left on Castiel's bed earlier that morning.

The Seraph gives the younger Winchester a cold stare. “Yes.” He answers simply.

“Aw, man. I hate _Angel Airways_.” Dean can't help but mutter. Glaring evilly at the archangel's jab against his Baby. “And I'll run you the hell over if you ever insult my car again you winged creep.”

“Stop.” Castiel inserts solidly before the bickering can kick off to full scale. Dean catches his brother holding back a smirk at the bored parental tone of the angel's voice; Dean wishes he had something to hand he could launch at his brother's enormous forehead.

Dean would rather sit through another one of Sam's stupid lectures than admit he's sulking. “Can't we just summon them here?” He is not whining, he is _not_.

The shake of Castiel's head shoots Dean's hope full of holes. “He wouldn't have to show. It's safer to go to him.”

The hunter totally does not pout either, looks like this is just going to be one fantastic day of disappointment. “Fine. Fine.”

The little group waits for Sam to chuck the rest of their stuff into the Impala and sign them out before he meets them behind the building, far away from prying eyes.

Castiel launches them over six hundred miles to the East.

The ground reappears suddenly, jolting through Dean's legs unpleasantly and he has to take a step to regain his balance. He smirks to himself to see Sam wobble a step or two as well. Gabriel, annoyingly, fares better. Instinct helping even when it wasn't his wings doing the flapping, before the archangel drops Uzziel back on the floor (Castiel refused to leave her in the Impala). Castiel himself is panting again, the wings retracting, folding themselves closed, ruffled and low. Straightening, the hunter catches his eye briefly before Castiel looks away and about their surroundings. The movement too quick for the human to catch any pain.

Gabriel's whistle brings Dean's attention back to the reason of their less than pleasant flight. (His feet are still tingling, damnit). There's an expanse of lawn surrounding them on all sides, late morning sun catching the pale cream paint of the huge house in front of them. There are blue velvet curtains framing the other side of each of the huge windows, and archways leading into the heart of the building.

“You guys have secret mojo-ified bank accounts you're not telling us about?” Dean grumbles, eyeing up the expensive building with a typical hunters sense of distrust.

Gabriel completely over rides his complaints with a clap on Castiel's shoulder. “I thought we we're going for the living room, bro?” He laughs, smirking at the blank stare he gets in return.

“Hn.” Is all the seraph manages, disinterestedly ignoring the older angel and begins stalking meaningfully across the grass, the foursome quickly falling into step beside him.

The building is not at all what Dean thought it would be. The walls are white, hardwood floors, open spaces covered up by the odd occasional old painting and expensive plush rugs with price tags greater than the value of everything Dean's ever owned, altogether, added up at once. The rooms are all marble columns, dark velvet, and stylish lighting. The hunter feels out off place just being in the hallways. The only word constantly swirling around his brain with annoying insistence is _Douchey_. The scrunch of Sam's forehead makes Dean feel a little better.

They walk through the numerous hallways until they finally reach a room with a faint ring of quiet music escaping through the seals of a pair of ornate, white double doors. Castiel doesn't pause at all in pushing past them and the odd group file through into the large room beyond. It's like the all the other pompous rooms with the posh furnishings, white walls, thick rugs, and engravings. But there's also a huge bong on the sleek black coffee table and several expensive bottles of various types of alcohol lining a bookshelf. So, there's that too.

There's also a guy waiting for them. Dean knows he's an angel just by glancing at him, there's a presence in the room that can't be mistaken for anything else. He looks like he's in his forties, maybe 5”10 , black pants, grey shirt and a blue jacket so dark it looks black until the lights strike it. But that's just his poor schmuck of a vessel and Dean doesn't trust the lax stance he's sporting. His grey-blue eyes watch them calmly before they fall on Castiel in-particular and then they light up straight away like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Balthazar!” Gabriel announces loudly before anyone else can say squat, the archangel practically bounding up to the other angel like Uzziel after someone throws her ball.

There's a half second of the apparently named Balthazar narrowing his eyes in confusion, before they widen in surprise. “...Gabriel?” For all that Dean's used to these dicks being robotic, there's a surprising note of hopeful disbelief in his voice, not to mention a British accent.

The cocky midget smirks, doing a small spin on the spot. “The one and only.”

Balthazar laughs, placing his crystal tumbler onto the edge of the black grand Y _amaha_ at his side, before clapping his older brother on the shoulder. “It is _good_ to see you, brother. I heard a few rumours that you were knocking around in the neighbourhood again. You've definitely got Raphael's old hackles up that's for sure.”

Gabriel shrugs. No one buys the fake nonchalance. “Guess Dad likes me more than I thought.”

Balthazar sends him a gentler look. “I heard what happened... I'm sorry, Gabriel.”

Silence falls in the room, even Uzziel's little curious footsteps halt. There's another shrug, but there's no attempt at flippancy this time. “Yeah. Me too.”

There's another silence, this one longer than the last and the two Winchesters shuffle awkwardly under the weight of it. No one had brought up Lucifer killing Gabriel. The humans wouldn't have a clue where to start, and both get the feeling they'd sincerely regret bringing it up in the first place. If Castiel had spoken to him about it, it wasn't in front of Dean.

Thankfully, the newcomer turns his attention to Castiel as the Seraph steps forwards. “Cassie, darling. Believe me when I say it's good to see you again, brother.”

A small smile pulls at the edges of Castiel's lips. “You too, Balthazar... But, I mourned your death...”

The other angel winces slightly, taking a step back and reaching for his glass. “Sorry about that, kinda the only way to drop off the Heavenly radar nowadays, unless you know, you're an archangel.” That was a hidden slight if Dean ever heard one.

The archangel scoffs. “Bro, the only person who gets to play _that_ card in _this_ room is Castiel. 'sides we have a time limit here, unless you want the less fun archangel to ruin your back to Earth party.”

“God, no.” Balthazar agrees wholeheartedly, glancing back to Castiel with confusion clear on his face. “But, what's with the manifests? Not that I don't love that black, Cassie. It's always suited you. But the white stripes? Not so much.”

“Zephon and Raphael.” The Seraph answers, glancing at the frayed bandages still swaddling the edge of his left wing. “It was... A bad day.”

“Nice to know your great gift of understatement will always be as much a part of you as that stick in your arse, Cassie.” Balthazar chortles, eyeing up Gabriel's lopsided grin with a grimace. “And _you,_ you look like you've lost a fight with a pack of chainsaws. Seriously, I leave Heaven for a few measly months and look what happens to you two.”

Pouting, Gabriel cocks his head. “Speaking of home. Anything you'd like to give back?” The speed at which his tone turns stern is kind of impressive.

Dean shares a glance with Sam, his brother shrugging his shoulders loosely. Good to know neither of them feel like they belong in this conversation; the older hunter wonders if this is what lost pieces of luggage feel like on airport baggage carousels.

Balthazar sips his drink nonchalantly, giving Gabriel a blank gaze. “Hm?”

“The weapons, Balthazar.” Castiel says severely, fixing his friend a hard look.

The other angel turns away in frustration. “Don't ask _that._ Anything else, Castiel; you know I'd give to you. We've done so much together, you and I. We're friends. But the weapons...”

The seraph takes an agitated step forwards and both Winchesters take a simultaneous step backwards. “You've always been an honourable warrior, Balthazar. I would not take you for a common thief.”

Sighing, Balthazar meets the peering blue eyes of his brother. “Common?” He scoffs slightly. “Thief?” He shrugs his shoulders, giving his brother a slight smirk “eh.”

“Kiddo, we're tryin' to take Raphael down a peg or two, we need those pig-stickers.” Gabriel adds. His stance is the complete opposite of Castiel's tension, all loose slouching, hands in his old hoodies' pockets. But there's no joke in his eyes.

Balthazar scoffs, stepping away from the two other angels. “Why bother?” Castiel's wings twitch out in surprise. “You think stopping Raphael will stop the fighting? It will never stop.” He turns to glance at Gabriel as well. “Of all people, I'd expect you both to know that.”

An unpleasant stiffness falls over Gabriel. The air feels thicker.

But Balthazar's not done. “You want my advice? Give up. Fake your death, join the mile high club and buy a piñata to beat. You'll have more chance of breaking that open than getting home back to the good old days.”

Castiel shook his head, the wings drop a fraction of an inch. “Brother...”

Gabriel takes another step forwards, closing the gap back between him and Balthazar. “You've always been one of my favourites, Balth. Hell, you two and the rest of the kids were one of the main reasons I stuck around for so long in the first place.” The Seraph snaps his attention to Gabriel at that, and Dean is now well and truly lost. “Now, we need to have a weapon that can weaken Raphael. And we need it now. So please brother. I don't want to have to do more than ask for it.”

Holy shit. Gabriel's threatening him. Balthazar though doesn't look surprised, Castiel just looks vaguely sad. Sad that it's come to threats.

The pompous angel sigh. “I know, Gabe.” Draining his glass, he sets it back on the pianos' edge and glances at Castiel in resignation. “But. I don't have anything like what I think you're looking for.” The archangel takes in a disbelieving breath to object, but Balthazar's hand snapping up cuts him off. “ _But_ , I know where you can find one.”

“Care to share with the class, Balthy?”

Shrugging loosely, Balthazar takes another step away from his older brother, they're old buddies, but he's not stupid either. “The stuff I...let's go with  _ borrowed _ . It's designed to irritate the hairless apes rather than hurt us. And the stronger ones. Well they're only really designed to kill angels like Cassie and Me. Nice new wings by the way Cas, Darling. There  _ are  _ a few that'd probably give you and Raphy a head ache, Gabriel, maybe a bad migraine. But. I recently found one strong enough to at least  _ hurt _ that pompous bastard.”

Castiel frowns, absently shifting his shoes further apart to allow Uzziel to perch between his feet to stop her nudging his shin. “Which one? Where is it?”

Balthazar gives the little creature a bizarre glance. “It's in two pieces. You, uh, got something on your shoe, Cassie.”

The Seraph isn't phased by his brother's distraction. “Balthazar. Where are they? What is is?”

The British angel turns slowly, glancing at the other member of his old Garrison. “The Holy Lance.”

A sarcastic chortle breaks out of Dean's throat, surprising even himself.

Balthazar glares hard at him over Gabriel's shoulder. “Something funny to you, Cockroach?”

Glancing back at the three stooges on the other side of the room, Dean merely shrugs. “What is it with you guys and lances, huh?”

Sam rolls his eyes like he's ashamed of their relation.

“Ah.” Balthazar says softly, glancing at his fellow angels. “So you found the Celtiberian Lance? That's how you found me?” He doesn't wait for an answer. “Well, I hope you hid it well.”

And that's a point. Dean hasn't even noticed they hadn't brought the stupid thing with them. And it's not like it'll fit comfortably in the Impala. Especially with the size of Castiel's wings already taking up so much extra space.

“Little Bro. The Lance of Longinus has been walkabouts since Constantinople like, twelve hundred years ago. Not to mention being broken into bits.” Gabriel cut in, his tone doubtful. “There are several fakes floating around, too.”

Humming in amusement, Balthazar grins the grin of someone who knew something you didn't. “Ah. Well. It was a pain in the arse to ascertain for sure. But I traced all the trails, found a few plot holes, and Bob's your uncle, I find out, eventually, that the shaft under Peter's Basilica is, in fact, the real deal.”

Gabriel snorts dryly. “I concede, Bro. What are you now? Like a Supernatural stock broker? Or one of those sad archaeologists from _National Geographic_?”

Folding his arms, the younger angel cocks a bemused eyebrow. “How much television have you been watching, Gabriel? Could you honestly see me wearing tan khaki shorts? Ugh, no. No, thank you.”

Castiel sighs loudly. “Can we please focus? Where is the blade?”

The two other angels share a sympathetic look. “See how much fun I've been having?” Gabriel drawls, nudging the Seraph playfully, ignoring the clear blue eyes watching him in utterly irritated confusion.

Balthazar nods, a look of pained empathy painting his features. “You should drop by one day, hit up Patras again.”

“You do remember what happened last time we were there, right?”

Balthazar grimaces. “Oh, now. That Tsunami was _hardly_ our fault. Besides, lost civilisations are fun for the humans aren't they? They have all of them stupid lost world dramas and whatnot.”

Castiel's wings snap open for a brief flap of irritation. “ _Brothers_ , we don't have time for this, where is the point, Balthazar?”

The other angel tilts his head thoughtfully. “Was that a pun, Cas?” The sour glance he gets in return has him huffing out a bored sigh. “Okay, fine. At first I thought that it was still buried somewhere at _Hagia Sophia,_ and that the one that Boring Baldwin sold was fake. But, turns out. It wasn't.”

Gabriel tilts his head curiously. “I kept an ear out for that thing, I thought it got stolen during _Les Mis?”_

“That's it. My head is officially hurting.” Dean mutters to his brother. Sam gave him a troubled sigh and a nod in return.

““ _The placed?”_ ” Castiel had really stepped up his confused game, no matter what his older sibling said, that sentence made no grammatical sense to the Seraph.

The sigh that rattles out of Gabriel is impressive. “ _Les Miserables,_ Cas. It's a … Never mind. We mean the French Civil War.”

Shaking his head, Balthazar ploughs onwards. “Turns out there was a mix up at the local National Library. Some stuff got stolen, things got confused and well... You know how the French are. Anyway, after the revolution, most of the stuff when the Louvre first opened, back in the what? 1790S? Came from Royalty or confiscated church property. Mix one confusion with another. And you get a bunch of morons stocking a little Lance point in one of the largest museums in the world and they don't even know what it is.”

“Wait.” Sam cuts in, stepping forwards and unwittingly drawing all of the angelic attention. “You're saying the tip of the _Holy Lance_ , is stuck under glass in the freakin' _Louvre?_ In _Paris?_ ” Disbelief colours every word so darkly it's hard to make them out.

Balthazar glances questioningly at his colleagues. “Seriously, you don't feel the urge to smite them? Like, not at all? Not even a little bit?” Castiel gives him a tired look, Gabriel gives a _sometimes_ shrug. “Well, you always were the most patient Power I ever knew, Castiel. I always knew there was a reason you were the Captain.”

Dean snorts, this is too much angelic humour for his tastes. “Okay, fine, whatever. This thing's in Paris? And what, the other one's in some Basilica some where?-”

“Rome” Sam cut in quickly.

“Yeah, Rome whatever. If that's where they are, how about you go fetch 'em for us and help us get ninja archangel off the judgement day rails.”

Balthazar laughs, pausing after a second when no one else joins in. He glances between the four other people in his house. “Wait. You're serious?”

Dean rolls his eyes, taking a step towards the stranger; as far as he's concerned, they've been dicking around here too long anyway. “Listen, Sherlock. In case you haven't noticed, we got an archangel hitting up Grace Anonymous, and a Seraph with a whistle in his wing. Not exactly flying fit or Heaven's finest.” And maybe that wasn't the best way to thaw the tension between him and Castiel with all three angels glaring at him.

Walking forwards, Balthazar confidently eyes the hunters for a few seconds and if there hadn't been a presence around the asshole before, there's definitely one now. “Listen up, you arrogant insect. We are _not_ your personal playthings. We are not your tools. And you are _definitely_ not in charge of us. There's a theme behind each of us leaving Heaven, you simple minded moron. Guess what it is.”

Glancing at Castiel, Dean knows there's no help coming from that direction. The Seraph's eyes have gone cold. Sam shifts uneasily beside him, the older Winchester refuses to be quelled by some nothing angelic soldier. “Well if you're not gonna help us then why the hell are we still-”

“Oh, enough.” The angel snaps angrily. “You know, for someone who has my favourite brother perched on their shoulder, you don't really know a whole lot about us do you? For instance, do you know the fastest way Seraphim wings heal after a certain resting period?” He pauses just long enough for Dean to shrug nervously and Gabriel to whine _“What about me?”_ in the background. This is a lecture and the hunter gets the impression the angel in front of him would have no problem at all smiting him for interrupting. There's a difference between confidence and stupidity. “By _flying._ It hurts like a bitch and wears you out, but it's the quickest way to regain your strength. So don't spout that crap at me you ape. If you're gonna drag him round like a lost cat trying to get him killed, at least find out how to heal the basics.”

“Balthazar.” The Seraph himself inserts with a low warning in his tone.

“That ridiculous archangel over there too.” The blonde adds, ignoring his dark winged brother and staring down the older Winchester. “Trust me when I say; the rest of the angels wouldn't be so happy to be near you filthy creatures.”

Gabriel whistles long and low. “Okay, Balthy. That's enough show and tell for today, don't you think? I think I'm blushing a little bit.”

Castiel's too busy locking eyes with Dean over Balthazar's shoulder to make his own comment. For the life of him, Dean can't tell if the Seraph is angry with him or not. His gaze is too blank. The hunter doesn't like it. There's too much of the old Castiel, the stranger that Dean first met back two years ago, in those blue eyes. This is not the first time Dean's stolen a look at his friend and wondered how well he actually knows him.

Shaking those thoughts away, Dean stares back at the British sounding angel defiantly; all of that crap is a two way street, and Dean's never really believed in share and care story time moments anyway. He's had enough of this makeshift gang of misfits making a big deal out of nothing. If Castiel has a problem, the stoic asshole should tear Dean a new one like he used too. The hunter's not sure that he likes the change now that he's noticed it.

Dean Winchester is like most typical hunters. Hell, he's like most typical _people_ , supernatural or otherwise. If he's tired, or pissed off, he'll snap and bitch and be an asshole until he feels better. It's not his fault that his stupid angel doesn't work the same way any more.

But none of that's going to help get the others off of his case about this. Internally sighing, the hunter Swallows all of the crap that's been bothering him since that stupid nightmare and he sends his angel a glance; words curious, eyes apologetic. “You think you can fly us across the pond, Cas?” ' _I'm sorry, man.'_ And he means it.

The seraph tilts his head; a moment of silence passes between them and the other three are temporarily forgotten. Then the dark, messy wings flare outwards, shoulders set proudly and Castiel's blue eyes finally soften away from steel. “Of course, Dean.

 _'I know.'_ Dean hears. He can't battle away the smirk, and frankly, doesn't want to.

Gabriel whines lowly. “Bro, I think I'm gonna be sick.”

Balthazar visibly ruffles. “Not on my floor you're not!”

Sam rolls his eyes, the tension passing idly by as the group seems to reconvene back into one. Uzziel trotting beside her owner gleefully. Nipping at the fraying edges of Castiel's borrowed plaid sweats that are dragging slightly at his heels. They really need to get him a newer wardrobe or fix his old one if they're going to be going out in public.

Dean's just glad to be leaving the place behind. For all that Castiel and Gabriel seem to like Balthazar, you'd have to be blind not to see that the friendly camaraderie does not extend to humans. Honestly, if it wouldn't severely put him in danger from the two other angels, Dean would be quite happy to gank the British bastard where he stands. Castiel is his friend, but Dean doesn't want him on his ass for killing his old war buddy. Narcissistic sociopath or not.

“Well, I guess we'll see you later, Balthy.” The archangel waves, plucking the Scottie off of the floor as she trips over his tennis shoes for the second time in as many minutes.

“Yeah, yeah. Let's just leave please.” Dean groans, this has been too touchy-feely already as it is. He needs a beer and he need one now.

“Not so fast boys.” Balthazar interrupts and the older hunter sighs forlornly. So close, and yet so far. “One last thing. Little birdies tell me something big is going down topside.”

Castiel's wings twitch, stiffly watching Balthazar carefully. “What have you heard?”

Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his expensive jacket, Balthazar quickly nods back to the Seraph, “ _Purgatory_. Castiel. Demons are whispering about it. Pretty loudly actually; they always have been rather dim creatures. Stock holders on the Black market are a bit concerned about business sales. Something about Raphael making deals...”

“With Demons?” There's no joke in Gabriel's voice. It sets all of Dean's hunter warning bells off. Christ... He sighs loudly in exasperation. The angel's glance at him with varying degrees of annoyance and disdain. “Great, Angels and Demons working together. Sounds like the summary of a bad sitcom.”

Sam ignores him, warily shooting looks between all three of the supernatural creatures. “About the cage?” Balthazar shrugs in a _not likely_ kind of way. “Well. What else would an _archangel_ need from a Demon?”

The British angel looks to Castiel. “Like I said. Purgatory.”

The seraph holds his gaze for a few seconds, visibly taking a breath and holding it for a moment. “Thank you, Balthazar...Will you help us?” Gabriel perks right up at that. Apparently, demented humour likes company.

Oh no.

No, no, _no_.

One fucked up homicidal maniac is enough for this hunter.

Shaking his head, Balthazar steps backwards.

Thank fucking Christ for that.

“I'm not joining you're little _Save the Humans_ posse, Cassie.” The other angel declines. Apparently, angels can't resist Castiel's puppy eyes either, and that's somewhat comforting to know. “ _But_ , only because they wouldn't know a decent drink if they drowned in one. No, brother. We've fought together too many times to count, we're family. Of course I will help you with this. I'm just not travelling around with them.” He claps his brother on the shoulder, and for the first time Dean thinks that maybe he should have paid more attention to the conversations between them. He recalls vaguely, haunted blue eyes at God-only-knows-O'Clock in a motel sometime last year after killing one angel sibling too many, and Dean telling the Seraph to get the hell out of his sight and let him sleep.

It's not the first time that Dean's been struck guilty because of that particular night.

Castiel doesn't answer, but a small smile pulls at the corner of his lips and he claps Balthazar's shoulder back. Gabriel grins when the British angel turns to him and gives a mock salute. “Take care, baby bro.”

Balthazar tips his head at them, watching lazily as Castiel reaches for them, wings rising at his back. Powerful muscles preparing for the six hundred mile leap. “Oh, and boys?” He calls out suddenly, glancing apathetically at the Winchester's, catching Dean's eye. “Fix his feathers, eh? It'll be a miracle if you morons land in the right country instead of the pond.”

The ground falls away, the feeling of his stomach sinking to the bottom of his shoes has Dean swallow  _ what the hell is that supposed to mean? _ As the Seraph at his side takes flight.

–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved some of the dialogue that Balthazar got in his debut in the series, and I couldn't resist slipping in one or two of his lines. :)  
> Whew, I can't even tell you how much research this chapter took to write.


	18. Angel Express Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wings are a fashion disaster. And that's all Dean has to say on the matter.
> 
> Also, Paris is pretty cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am as English as it gets, Hell, I am literally typing this with one hand so I don't have to put my tea down and my healthy student dinner is my one remaining Kinder Egg. I worry constantly because I don't know all that much about Americanisms beyond what I've looked up, so having been to Paris a couple times, this was an nicer Chapter for me.

Bobby opts out of joining them on the four and a half thousand mile flight to Paris. Declaring himself too busy researching and keeping his business up and running to go gallivanting half way around the world for a stick and it's topper.

Castiel had seemed quietly relieved with that little scrap of news, standing away from the small gathering at Bobby's desk so as not to crowd his wings. The seraph had probably thought no one was paying enough attention to notice. But Dean did. He gets it too. Lugging the four of them the six hundred mile trip to Easter and then repeating it on the way back again had not agreed with the angel one little bit. They'd landed outside the  _ Red Roof Inn,  _ though a good few hundred feet away from the Impala which Dean suspected they'd been aiming for, when Gabriel had whistled lowly and patted his panting, pale brother on the back with a mumbled “Impressive, bro. Got further than I thought you would.”

Dean decided then and there they were driving back to Sioux falls. No exceptions.

It took driving through half the night, with the occasional wing stretch break, and Sam taking over the wheel halfway. But they didn't have to stop in another motel. A yawning Bobby had greeted them, grumbled out he'd search for proof of what Balthazar had told them, before shooing them all to bed like a aggrieved parent who's caught them sneaking in after breaking curfew.

It's early the next morning now. Sam's stuffing a few last minute supplies into a rucksack he'd dug out of the deep dark depths of one of Bobby's old stores. The duffel bags are a bit too unusual for supposed tourists to take into a famous landmark. Not with all of the paranoid security that's bound to be lurking around in the background, international arrests aren't something that the Winchesters need on their already impressive criminal records. You'd think saving the world would earn some guys a little slack. So, two small navy green rucksacks it is.

They can't take much with them; A few easy to conceal knives, a hand gun each, holy water, salt, and a handful of other odds and ends. Just enough in case something follows them there and causes trouble. The biggest threat is from the ever annoying angels, and as fucked up as that is, at least the dicks aren't as likely as demons are to attack innocent people while they wait around out of boredom. If the prayer-parade does show up, the two angels on their side will be their only realistic chance of escape. The angel killing swords are too long to hide on the Winchesters themselves without the weird angelic supernatural stash thing the other two can do to stow theirs; and it's not like they can take an ancient pot of holy oil around with them.

Dean doesn't feel nearly armed enough to be so far away from his Baby's armoury.

Gabriel is being as helpful as ever; basking like a ginger cat in the morning sunlight hitting the couch through the open windows, Uzziel curled on his stomach. Eyes closed, legs crossed at the ankles and hitched up on the opposite arm of the chair.

Castiel, as per normal, is nowhere to be seen. Glancing into the kitchen, the absence of the Seraph presents a real hole in their plans, it's an eleven hour flight to Paris by human means and they can't really afford it money-wise or time-wise. And, even if it sucks to admit, despite Castiel's jets being on the fritz, this hunter will take _Angel Airways_ and it's crappy side-effects any day over an eleven hour death flight in a metal box. You've got to hope that a guy with literal angel wings knows how to fly better than some tiny human pressing buttons and pulling at sticks like he's been shown by another unavoidably wingless human.

So the fact that he's suddenly vacated the area like the enormous flight risk he is, isn't helping improve Dean's pre-flight mood in the slightest. Stalking up the stairs, the hunter locates the missing Seraph perched cross-legged on the middle of their shared bed, which is weird, but at least he hasn't flapped up to the damn roof again like some oversized misguided blackbird.

Castiel stares up at him wide-eyed when he pushes the door open, and it's not hard to guess why. His right wing is extended and curled round in front of him, his hands buried in the feathers there; a small group of wayward black feathers are piled at his side, a few downy ones waving slowly at him with the wind from the door. He's staring at Dean like he's been caught with his hand on the squeezy honey bottle again.

“Dude. Are you...Preening?”

And awkward silence spills over the room. The wary embarrassment in those blue eyes gives Dean the distinct impression that angel preening is a private affair. The quiet stretches a moment longer before the right wing loosens away from tension, and in a fluid movement, it returns to it's natural place against the Seraphs back. The long pinions bending and spilling over the comforter behind him like a beautiful oil slick.

“Yes.” Castiel sighs, speaking shortly, glancing at the door passed Dean's side.

It's a clear,  _I don't want to do this with you in the room_ signal. Well tough.

“You missed a bit.” Dean says instead, smirking as he points out the ruffled, scruffy set of feathers peaking over the back of the angel's shoulder blades. The longest pinions on the right wing shimmer much brighter then their brethren, set back in their rightful place and well cared for. The organisation lessens the further away from the tip of the wing they go, a sign of Dean's interruption.

Castiel doesn't appreciate his humour. Eyes narrowing into a deep blue glare.

The hunter throws up his hand, taking a gulp from the bottle of beer in his left hand and shuts the door behind him. Moving closer to the bed and the angel tenses with each step he takes, wings ruffling threateningly. “Can't reach?” He jibes, the serrated edges of the flight feathers suddenly seem to be much sharper under the soft amber lamplight.

The glare in the Seraph's eyes turns evaluating. “You are a flawed human, Dean Winchester. You seem to lack a normal survival instinct.”

“Holy shit, Cas. Was that sarcastic humour I hear?”

Another sigh. “What do you want, Dean?”

The confidence and play that had been powering Dean's movements slowly begins to desert him. Why was he still in here? His brains scrambles for an answer, there's a desperate uneven leap for a topic change back to the point. “We're about ready to go, Cas.”

The angel grimaces, glancing at his still very unsettled left wing. “I'd hoped for more time.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean drops down on to the mattress in front of him. “Well, why didn't you do it earlier then?” Honestly, he thought Sam took for freaking ever to get ready sometimes. Why the hell did he get lumbered with Heaven's most high maintenance angel? Actually, Gabriel's still downstairs....Okay, why did he get lumbered with Heaven's second most high maintenance angel?

For all that he's bitching to himself, he knows why it wasn't done earlier. Castiel had practically fallen asleep the moment they reached the house and had only woken up about an hour ago. They figured it was best to let him sleep in if they were gonna trust him to zap them halfway around the world on less than flight worthy wings. “I've attempted it several times, they've only recently healed enough.” Meaning, _it hurt too much to reach before, and even then I didn't get the time to myself to do it._ The angel states it blandly, like he doesn't appreciate Dean's continuing round of questioning.

“Well, we're on a schedule, buddy.” With that, the hunter swallows the rest of his beer, his nerves, and gestures to the right wing, wiping his palms on his jeans. “Hit me with it.” It takes his common sense a few seconds to catch up and there's a dull voice inside Dean Winchester's skull that simply goes, _“Huh?”_

Well, shit. It's too late to back out now.

Castiel tilts his head in confused wariness, like he's not sure he likes where this seems to be heading. “I'm not going to hit you.”

Palming at his face, Dean should have seen that one coming from a mile away. “No, you winged idiot. Tell me how to...” God, preening is such a freaky word, “… do the, thing.” He flaps his hand and everything and Christ, let the carpet swallow him now.

The rainbow of confused emotions that filters across Castiel's face would usually have Dean laughing if the tension wasn't racking back up again in the background. The angel's shoulders hitch higher, as if deciding the pros and cons of crossing the angelic etiquette line again. The hesitance in those bright blue eyes has the hunter certain of being told to leave, like a child that's gone to touch something incredibly expensive and had their parents scold them for it. Then, the angel sighs for a record breaking third time in a row, and nods tiredly.

That little dim voice in Dean's head is just dumbly repeating “ _What?_ ” _._

The wing swings back round Castiel's side, settling in the gap between them and Dean gets the impression of a nervous child hiding shyly behind something when the Seraph's blue gaze peeks over the top line at him with wary curiosity. 

Turns out, this whole preening business isn't all that hard.

Well, for someone who the wings aren't actually attached to, he supposes. The angel spends a few moments explaining what to do, what feathers need rearranging, how to align each one accurately, what order to do them in, and making sure that they're healthy and clean. Then he lets the hunter watch for a moment, before tentatively pressing the curved joint into Dean's shoulder in consent for him to start.

It's weird. There's absolutely no debating that. But Dean swallows any complaints, because for some stupid reason, this was his freaking idea; and carefully begins to untwist the small, ragged feathers lining the top-outside leading edge of the Seraph's wing, while Castiel himself tackles the inside. It's not difficult work, fixing the feathers is delicately methodical and soothing in a strange, eerie kind of way. They feel the same as they have any other time that Dean's brushed against the ebony limbs. A warmth spreads from his fingers, wrapping around his arm and sinking down into his chest. Soft and comforting and completely unnatural, it should freak the hunter the fuck out. The feathers themselves are as soft as Dean recalls; the surface of each ridged feather is like cashmere, but somehow  _feels_ stronger than anything the hunter's ever touched. Static nips at his fingers the surer and deeper he becomes, power tingling through his forearms in a way that is anything but unpleasant and it completely whacks him off-guard again that his best friend is an  _angel_ . An honest to God, angel. An angel who's currently letting Dean's untrained fingers tug at the centre of his manifested Grace.

It really  _should_ be freaking him out. Dean swallows thickly, because it doesn't. It's actually kind of easy, and bar a few flinches early on with the hunter tugging a little  _too_ firmly on his sensitive feathers, the Seraph seems to lose the wariness he'd been hoarding the longer it carries on.

Then, in one awful moment, one of the long secondary primaries he'd moved onto comes away from the wing in Dean's hand. He stares at it numbly for a whole two seconds, because  _yeah_ he had pulled that one a little bit, but fuck he hadn't tugged  _that_ hard had he? He freezes solid,  _Shitshitshit_ thumping through his brain and shoots his eyes to Castiel's, wary of a sudden angelic smiting. The seraph is full on  _smiling_ at him. All teeth and squinted eyes and Dean can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Cas smile like this. Even less than that if he discounts that fucked up future that dick Zach sent him off to first class on  _Angel Airmail._

The black wing under his firm grasp vibrates with the angel's amusement, Dean can feel the powerful muscles trembling with silent laughter. “Wh-. Didn't that hurt?” Dean stammers. Damn, he's a hunter! He doesn't freakin' stutter like a teenage nerd talking to a girl.

“Dean.” Castiel says simply, the humour of his tone making his voice seem softer, less gravel-worn, as he gestures to the small pile of feathers at his side. “Feathers fall, Dean. You don't feel a shed hair fall loose, do you?”

“Yeah, yeah.” The hunter grumbles back darkly, staring hard at the bastard. “Laugh at the novice. See if I help next time.” He'd forgotten the wings act like emotion magnets for the angel, broadcasting what Dean feels strongly and he sets his mind to shoving all of his disdain for the snarky little ass back at him.

The Seraph full on chuckles quietly, the wings puffing lightly against Dean's palms, shaking gently. Something blazes down through Dean's fingertips. The soft warmth that usually spills from the ebony limbs grows hot for a moment, spreading to every nerve in Dean's body, a ball of light igniting, pulling up a bright chair behind his branded ribs. It doesn't hurt, but a wave of _stuff;_ affection, serenity, gratitude and amusement pours into Dean's soul so suddenly and brightly he can't help but freeze with the strength of it. And just as suddenly, it stops.

The hunter sits and breathes thickly for a moment, the wing now still beneath his fingers. He's surprised he didn't let go. “The Hell, Cas?” He strains to ask seconds later, he'd wanted to shout that, he couldn't make his voice raise, the heat of his chest making his skin buzz. He feels light. Like the weight of Hell crushing his ribs was sucked out of him in one dizzying moment.

The Seraph still looks amused, but his posture is quieter, calmer; a stark contrast to when Dean first walked in. “You're not the only one who can do that, you know.” Is the only thing the angel says in explanation. Shit, _that's_ what that feels like? Oops.

Dean laughs loosely, shakily. The emotional tide leaving him a little dazed and overwhelmed. “Freakin' cheeky, man.” He complains, but the memory of affection refuses to leave it's seat even after the black damage of Hell returns to weigh him down again. 

Companionable silence fills the room for a while after. Castiel is much faster and more proficient at the whole preening business than Dean, and turns round with his back to the hunter so he can work on the inside of his left wing while Dean catches up on the back of the right one. The area where the wings emerge is the hardest part for Castiel to reach, the outside in-particular, and it's no surprise that this is where the tangles are the worst.

It makes Dean wonder for a while, even as his fingers move idly, how the angel ever managed to preen that area at all. There's no way he could reach, surely? Not that Castiel has his wings manifested physically on this plane that much anyway. But Dean's not exactly sure what happens to the wings when Dean can't see or touch them. Those shadows on the barn wall, after all, still had feathers, even when he couldn't touch them.

He  _almost_ asks about it. Opens his mouth and everything. Before he snaps his jaw shut with an inaudible click. Because of course Cas can't reach them. So someone else must have done it for him. The angel had stared at him as if this was something that wasn't done. But maybe Dean had read that wrong. It wasn't something that wasn't done at all. Just something that wasn't done by anything other than angels. Wasn't done by Dean. 

It makes him angry at first. Because how dare the hunter get his filthy human hands over the precious angel's wings. Polluting all that Grace with his tainted, Hell-tortured soul. The wings ruffle under his hands. Castiel twitches, he was still before but this feels more forced, as if he's trying not to move for fear of drawing the hunter's sharp attention.

The anger fades. Because what's done or not aside. Dean still has his hands buried to his knuckles in feathers so dark and oil-glazed it reminds him of those huge posters of space nebulas you see in school science blocks; or plastered over billboards advertising for  _National Geographic_ or the  _Discovery Channel_ . 

He swallows his comment on the matter. This is a first for the angel as much as it is for Dean. And at least this isn't a grim reminder for the hunter. For Castiel this must just be a reminder of the fact that most of his family is out for his blood, and he no longer trusts them enough to let them anywhere near his Grace like this. Which, actually...probably means that over those whole two years on the run from Heaven and Hell to shut down the apocalypse, these wings probably weren't cared for at all beyond the Seraph's limited reach.

Castiel slowly loses the tension that was building, settling back into his preening pattern. The hunter's cheeks start burning for some reason. Dean glares hard at his hands and carries on working.

Even though the silence wasn't broken. The room feels different for a while. It's not tense or strange. Just, oddly different. It stays that way until Dean's sorted his way through so many black feathers that it only takes him nearly half the time to do the outside of the left wing. He only comes to a stop when he hits the bandages still swaddling the edge of the angel's wing. The incident with Zephon seems so long ago Dean's half surprised when he moves his hands over and the binding fabric is in his way. He stops. A little lost now that he's pretty much finished. The wings look much healthier, a glossy shine to them that they'd lost over the last few weeks. All Dean did was re-arrange them, he's not entirely sure why it made so much of a difference, but he's not going to ask and make this any weirder than it already is.

It takes him a few seconds to realise that Castiel isn't moving. He's still in front of him, and the hunter hadn't even noticed that the angel had finished the inside of his wings already. Just sitting there, shoulders the most relaxed Dean's ever seen, letting the Winchester catch up and looking all the world like he wishes Dean wouldn't ever stop. And yeah, that takes the weirdness cake.

“Feels pretty good, huh?” He blurts out before he thinks, his tone is smug though, so that's something. Won't have to return his Man Card straight away. Though he may need to go ahead and eat a whole steak by himself to nurse it back to health.

The hunter expects Castiel to startle. But he just hums lazily. Breathing in soft puffs and chin dipped low against his chest.

Rolling his eyes, Dean prods his finger into the angel's spine through one of the slits in the back of his black shirt. “I've gotta take these bandages off, man. Left it too long to check as it is.”

Castiel grunts the sound of the truly hard-done-by. There's a beat where Dean's not sure if Castiel is going to help out or not, then the wings stretch out a little, before they fold neatly and the angel shuffles back around to face him.

The left wing curls back around between them before Dean can say anything about the grumpy ass pout on the angel's face. Rolling his eyes, the hunter pulls out a small knife from inside his boot and carefully slices through the thick white fabric constricting the wing. Castiel grunts lowly as Dean pulls the tattered strips away, the sound soft and low in his chest. Dean does his best to ignore it.

Dropping the soiled fabrics in a pile next to the shed feathers, the human absently smooths down the ragged, split feathers that had been pressed and yanked apart by the bandages. Castiel doesn't wince, but there's a faint twitch of his eyebrow whenever Dean brushes too close to the old injuries. The two wounds have both sealed, the endmost points of each gouge completely closed but for a faint red line. The majority of the wounds though are still puffy and sore, flecks of dried blood still making themselves known in the late morning sun pouring through the windows, the faint salt and pepper speckle stains a reminder of how close to death the Seraph had come. The lines left behind are jagged and painful looking, the aggravated skin flushed and tight where it strains to cover once mutilated, shredded muscles. But despite this, there are small tiny points poking through the skin around the area, new feathers emerging still in their protective sheaths, waiting for the days when they'll be strong and long enough to aid in flight again.

It still looks bad, but it's healing. And that's all Dean really cares about.

Castiel sighs gently, his eyes are an equal mix of relief and resignation. As if he'd been hoping for better, but knew all along that this was as about as good as he could have hoped. Still under Dean's calloused hands, the wing flexes gently at the elbow and wrist. The limb bending and twisting carefully, testing the pain thresholds and range of movement without the harnessing bandages. There are winces of pain now, but the Seraph's gaze lightens and a smile tugs at this lips because they both know; there is no need to bind them any more.

It's stupid really, all things considered. But Dean doesn't mistake the rush that flies down his fingers to his chest from the wing for anything but that of being _free._ And Dean thinks he understands Castiel the best he ever has in that one moment, despite everything that he doesn't know about what and who the angel truly is, he understands the simple joy of being free to roam on his own terms. Dean's place is in the Impala, roaring down the nearest highway. Castiel's place is in the sky, watching over them from the wing when he's not in the back seat.

–

There turns out to be yet another delay. One that winds up being more complicated than it by rightly should have been. The cause? Clothes. Or more specifically, shirts and coats. Castiel manages to fix his trench coat, declaring that if he had to wear one it would be _that_ one and _Dean, I want my coat or I'm not going_. Which

had well and truly stopped the _For Fuck's sake, Cas_ on Dean's tongue because the angel was having an honest to God temper tantrum.

Naturally, Castiel gets his way. But Dean had plucked the bloody and torn white dress shirt from the angel's fingers and glared long enough for the Seraph to give in and go with him to the nearest thrift shop. They're supposed to look like summer tourists damn it, not international bankers; especially because rich people are assholes that live to flaunt their money in every one's faces and Dean doesn't think Castiel could flaunt anything but angelic arrogance and scary smitiness. The hunter even tells the angel so, provoking not only the arrogance, but also the smitiness all in one go and Dean mentally pats himself on the back for being so right.

It takes a little over an hour of scouring Sioux Falls' thrift shops until they amass a small collection of new dark washed jeans, assortments of shirts, a pair of sturdy boots and a few jackets. It takes so long because a guy with a head to toe wingspan even when folded and invisible presents a tidy challenge. Not only in fitting in the car, or between aisles, but also into clothes. A problem Dean really should have seen coming and Gabriel makes a point of laughing at him for when they get back. Castiel claims disdainfully that he can wander around in the black shirt he's already wearing so Dean can fix them later. As if Dean is his goddamn house wife that lives to fix the asshat's clothes.

They end up getting similar stuff for Gabriel. The dude's been walking around in his jeans and sweats for way too long. Not to mention it's way too hot for hoodies in the middle of summer for an archangel that can suddenly feel temperature changes when he doesn't want too. The archangel grimaces when Dean chucks the bag at his face but doesn't say anything.

“Can we _go_ now.” Dean almost whines a little later on, Sam's unpacked and packed their bags twice now and it's slowly driving the older Winchester into an early grave.

“Dude, the museum begins closing it's rooms at half five. We've got half an hour to get the point. And it's not like any amount of museum security can keep Cas out.” Sam drones out dryly, finally re-zipping that goddamn bag.

Dean snatches the bag out of the air as his brother chucks it to him. Gabriel is steadfastly ignoring them and making a fuss of Uzziel who's trying to wriggle into Sam's pack on the floor. She knows they're leaving and is excited to follow, the hunter doesn't envy Bobby who'll have to deal with the moping that will come when they leave without her. Castiel seems to tense a little at Sam's statement, and really, the angel doubting his flight range is in no way helping Dean's frtizing nerves.

It's not like they're even gonna be there for that long anyway. Fly there, get the point, hit up Rome, get the shaft. Then shift ass back across the pond. Simple.

Swinging their packs onto their shoulders Bobby chucks a black leather wallet to Sam, who tucks it carefully in his breast pocket. “That's your funds, couple hundred Euros, fake health insurance and ID cards. Don't lose it.”

“Thanks for this, Bobby.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm amazing and all.” The older hunter drones. “Get goin' other wise you'll never find the damn thing in time.”

Smirking Dean nudges the Seraph at his side playfully. “You heard the man, let's get the _Angel Express_ going.”

Castiel gives him a hard look for a moment, before turning his stupid blue laser eyes to his older brother. “Gabriel...”

The archangel huffs a sigh and slaps his sibling on the other shoulder. “Just like old times, eh, bro? Don't worry, might not be the Energiser Bunny right now, but I'll play wing tips if you look like you need it.”

_Things Dean Needed To Hear Before This Flight: Not That._

“You're _sure_ you can do this, Cas? Cause you drop us in the ocean I swear to God I'll come back just to kick your ass.”

The Seraph rolls his eyes. “Dean, We don't have time for this.”

Gabriel gives a low snicker. “Come on now, Deano. I always thought you were a high roller?” Like all angels, Gabriel can speak every language; Unfortunately, Unnecessarily Patronising Sarcasm is one of these. Dean's still convinced that this asshole archangel is the original architect for the infuriating existence of the so called text slang language. Seems like something someone invented just to piss off people with a mental age older than twelve.

“Asshole” Dean bites.

“Blow-hard”

“ _Can we please go.”_ Castiel interjects almost desperately.

Sam sends him a sympathetic look the same moment that Gabriel chuckles out; “Oh, we do love it when you get all bossy, brother.”

Castiel's wings spread menacingly, glaring daggers at the archangel. Grabbing both of the Winchesters and barely giving a second for Sam to grab Gabriel, the Seraph leaps. Ebony wings beating hard and Bobby's “ _What've I said about flying in my damn house!”_ An echoing ring in the background.

–

Flight always seems to pass in an instant of dizzying vertigo, leaving Dean slightly breathless and unsteady, but over before he knows what's happening. This time, there's at least a full three or four seconds of it. He wouldn't even be able to begin to describe it properly. The closest thing he could think of was it's like being pulled in too many directions at once, a physical force of _nothing_ grabbing at you, down to each atom, and having a game of fucked up tug-of-war.

It's like falling, without the feeling of actually moving at all; but amplified so much that you can't breathe, or think, or move.

Then the ground returns with a bone jarring thump.

Sunlight completely dazes Dean when he opens his eyes. There's a second or two of pure disbelief, because there is ground beneath his feet and nothing feels broken or in the wrong place; and when he opens his eyes, the larger glass pyramid of the Louvre is in front of him, raised pools surrounding the pavement on two sides, and the evening sun is in his eyes.

Well, shit.

Castiel did it.

Sam shoves past Dean's shoulder, and the older hunter snaps out of his daze and glances over to the weird-ass pilot of the day. Castiel is panting hard, Gabriel letting the Seraph lean against his arm for a few moments and for once there's no joke in the archangel's eyes. Dean hurriedly steps over, absently realising that Castiel has already hidden his wings from sight and that no one is screaming about miracles or random appearances from thin air. “Cas? Man, you all right?”

The Seraph certainly doesn't look it, drawn and exhausted and he let's Gabriel shove him back to sit on the wall of the pool at his back. The panting eases after a few more seconds, and he nods. Dean doesn't like the shake in his words. “My Grace is still very weak. It will be some time before it recovers fully.”

Which is totally not what Dean asked, but he feels so damn sorry for the asshole that he doesn't press. “Yeah. It's fine, Cas.”

Gabriel snorts. Sitting back on his heels from where he'd crouched down in front of the angel. “Could have leant on me, bro. I'm not that fragile.” Castiel spares him a flat look. “Yeah...wouldn't do it as a kid either.” Standing, the archangel ruffles his little brother's hair before glancing around, apparently that had been the limit of Gabriel's displays of affection for the day, month and year.

Castiel shoots an annoyed glare at the shorter angel's back before standing himself. He looks tired to Dean, but not keel over worthy, so the hunter swallows any remaining concern and takes a look around himself. They're in an open area of pavement, a 'U' shape of old fashioned buildings framing the two sides and joining behind them, each of which are lined with archways and columns. Statues and carvings often lining the second floor spaces between windows above the arches. The space between the two sides is wide, the landmark largest glass pyramid in the middle in front of them, but three other smaller ones behind and beside the larger one, the space between them taken up by large triangular pools.

There aren't as many people dotted around as Dean feared there would be, though it's probably because there's only fifteen minutes before rooms inside start to close off and anybody who was visiting today has either already left or is still inside. There's a few large patches of grass on the far open side of the site, a large stone archway leading away from the site towards the Arc de Triomphe in the distance. Some tourists are still scattered about, a few young children chasing each other up and down the paths between the fountains, yelling out at each other in french and laughing in delight. Some are walking around with cameras between their fingers, trying to catch the lowering sunlight hitting the glass panels and scattering the light in pretty patterns around them.

The silver metal railings that were used to organise the masses into some semblance of a line earlier in the busier hours are now empty; the queue gone and off to their hotels and evening restaurants. It's warm still, not quite the South Dakota heat that was starting to build to it's max, but still hot.

Castiel still looks strange with that damn trench coat on, as if it's not too hot for anything but a T-shirt. Gabriel pulls off his jacket even as Dean thinks it, looking more like his old self with a red shirt and jeans and tennis shoes. The Seraph has Deans black shirt, dark wash blue jeans that look a little worn at the knees already, and the black steel toe caps they'd bought the hour before. It's probably weird that it still looks odd to Dean to see the angel in jeans after years in a suit, even though he's not worn it for over a month now. It's not a bad look on him by any means.

The wings are still a wardrobe nightmare though, because invisible or not, there are two slits in the back of his coat and shirt that would be incredibly difficult to explain if the back of his coat didn't have that stupid flap thing in just the right place to hide some of it. The hunter's supernatural senses are telling him that there's some mojo going on from keeping people from looking too closely at his back, he only notices because his eyes keep sliding away without him even meaning to.

“We need to get around to the other side of the pyramid.” Sam says, his voice a little quiet; Dean doesn't even need to turn to see that awed nerdy little grin in his head. This is the first time that either of them have ever left the states for anything but brief border crosses into Canada and one memorable occasion in Mexico. It's weird, as if the supernatural terrors that make up their lives can't exist here, like the apocalypse never tried to happen. It makes Dean's chest burn, because for all that sometimes it doesn't feel as if they've really stopped anything with Raphael on the war path in the place of his older brothers. All of this is still here; the kids, the touring families, even the sleazy little businesses trying to take advantage of all of the naïve first time travellers. All of it is still here because of him and his baby brother, and the inappropriately dressed Seraph at his side.

All right, even because of the other asshole too.

The tension and stress of trying to stop Raphael falls away a little bit in that moment, and it hits Dean how much him and Sam and Cas have needed this. To see what exactly it is they're trying to save. The hunter wonders if this is how Castiel kept his faith for so long during the apocalypse. His search for God bringing him all over the world, to all of the types of people they were trying to save.

Christ, Dean could have used this during the apocalypse.

The inside of the pyramid is air conditioned. And from the inside, the crossbars that hold the hollow pyramid up are more easily visible. It's impressive architecture for sure, though a little out of place in such an old, grand looking building. Paying for the tickets end up bothering Dean just as much as he thought it would; having to pay thirteen Euros for a little over fifteen minutes, not that the older Winchester could imagine wanting to spend more than fifteen minutes in a pretentious french museum. Gabriel does the talking, fast talking in french and it shouldn't really surprise the hunter when the archangel throws a comment at Castiel and the Seraph blandly answers “Arrête, Gabriel !” But it does surprise him, and he spends a good thirty seconds with his eyebrows raised at the back of Cas' head until Sam nudges him and shakes his head, stalking off to follow the archangel. Angel, right.

The inside of the museum is huge. Clean light floors, large glass window book shops and burly looking security guards. It's busier down here, and there's a steady stream of people heading off in one direction that even Dean knows, with his limited artistic knowledge, must be the way to the da Vinci's _Mona Lisa_. Sam consults a map he picks up at the ticket office and browses for a few minutes before shoving it under their noses. 

The page is labelled  _1_ _st_ _é_ _tage,_ covered in purple, teal, blue and red squares, outlining the layout of the rooms and their numbers. Sam points to the purple squares. “I think it's gonna be somewhere in the Decorative Arts section, but there are some storage rooms on that floor and some of the rooms in this place are closed certain days because the place is so damn huge.”

Great, hide and seek with a powerful weapon in 40 hectares of museum pieces. Oh, and they're about to steal it. No big deal. International criminal record here we come. “You can sense it, right? Please tell me this isn't just a hit and miss thing.”

Castiel gives the older Winchester a reassuring glance and something soft brushes his arm. “This isn't just a hit and miss thing, Dean.”

Relieved, Dean nudges his brother. “In that case, lead on, Sammy.”

The younger Winchester huffs, adjusting his pack on his shoulder. “We got like, ten minutes before some of the rooms start closing, we've gotta hurry.”

It takes several flights of stairs, a little bit of thin crowd dodging and one or two wrong turns before they get where they're aiming for. And if there's one thing that Dean's learned it's that this place is fucking enormous. Oh. And the french are  _really_ damn rude to tourists.

Eventually, they hit a floor with wooden panels and the cleanest white walls Dean's ever seen outside of a mental unit. There's a sign declaring _1_ _st_ _é_ _tage. Moyen Age_ hanging on the wall outside one of the doors and Dean figures they must be in the right place. There are fancy looking brown panelled boxes with glass panels out in little islands inside the room, and others hanging from the wall. There's only a hand full of people left on the entire floor, the main museum show pieces not on this floor and Dean supposes, it's all a little standard for museums up here.

They walk past open rooms, and others with some sections closed off from the public. Their resident angelic scent dogs have to glare hard at the closed ornate panels before they conclude there's nothing of interest beyond them and move on.

Sam is having a nerdy historygasm with every room they come to, eventually, Castiel and Gabriel start pointing things out and a weird game hits up about who can guess the age of the thing closest to the label accompanying the piece. Needless to say there's a lot of scoffing and criticism from the angels and it becomes clear early on that the museum is going to lose quite severely. Approximately none of it makes any sense to Dean, but despite the huffing and inaccuracies, soon Gabriel is laughing about something hilarious that John the baptist once did to a goat and Sam is laughing with him, even Castiel is smiling along with both of them with that stupid _fond_ look he gets when he thinks they aren't paying attention _._ And holy shit, this is Dean's life. It sucks almost all of the time, there's always some shitfest. Always something Dean is fighting tooth and nail to keep because bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people and that's just the way things are.

But it's also Sam laughing at an archangel with a few screws missing and a Seraph wearing a coat in the height of summer. And that's actually kind of awesome.

The older hunter smirks dryly for a moment, because he knows it won't last. The chance they all survive this is slim to none. But God, please let hm keep this anyway. This weird ass Seraph, his nerdy little bother, hell even Gabriel's grating sarcasm.

Castiel is giving im a curious look, but Dean just pats his shoulder and smiles. Walking off to catch up to their brothers.

Dean is almost disappointed when Castiel freezes mid step. And as much as Dean is against letting anyone know that he's enjoying himself in an honest to god _french_ museum, he still frowns when the angel stares at a small closed white door they'd almost walked past; as far as the hunter can tell, it's for storage.

It's just in time too, because one of the security guards chooses that moment to announce something in french, before repeating “This floor will be closing shortly, please vacate the room and thank you for coming.” in English, and then German.

“Cas?”

Gabriel and Sam backtrack to them, and Gabriel squints at the door for a moment before whistling lowly. “Nice catch, Bro. Haven't lost your touch have you, old bean?”

That earns the archangel a bizarre glance, but Dean in all his fluentness in the language of Castiel can see the small bristle of pride. And huh? Guess he does still care what his brother thinks.

“Think you can get it without anyone seeing you? Or setting off any alarms?” Sam asks, glancing over to where the only other people in the room were walking out, an elderly couple with matching shirts and horrendously yellow crocs.

Giving the door a evaluating look, Castiel nods slowly, uncertain. “Not being seen will be easy, not setting off the alarms is more difficult, but shouldn't be too much of a problem either.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “But...?”

“Wings a bit sore, Cassie?” Gabriel asks wryly, bouncing on his heels like a child on a sugar rush.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Lay off, Gabe.” Because anyone with ears could hear the hidden challenge lacing the words.

It's too late though, Castiel has taken it as a slight the way Gabriel intended, Dean can feel the faint breeze of the black wings ruffling. “It's fine, Gabriel. I'll do it.”

Sighing heavily, Dean sends a baleful glare at the archangel, who merely waggles his eyebrows playfully and spins on his heel. “Well, boys.” The archangel begins, waltzing to the door with a flourish. “How about we hit up the _Moulin Rouge._ It's a walk sure, but damn those guys know their stuff, it's got a cool windmill on it's roof and everything.”

Castiel tilts his head in confusion and oh _God_ as funny as that would be, Dean is strangely not in the mood to hit that side of the city. “Dude, we still have to rock up to St. Peter's this afternoon...evening....whenever the hell it is.”

Sam and Gabriel both glance at him as if he's a dog that's suddenly not eating his steaks. The hunter glares at the floor, grabs the stupid Seraph's coat sleeve and drags him from the room. Not turning to worry if the others are following.

Castiel falls into step, like he's not sure if he's grateful or not.

–

The foursome decide to wait until after the museum closes before sending Castiel in to get the point and they waste the time leisurely strolling up  _ Quai  _ _François_ _ Mitterrand.  _ The birch trees give some shelter from the deep orange evening sun, and the river at their side gives a calm soundtrack even as Gabriel and Sam babble about the controversial nature of the glass pyramid as the entrance of the Louvre and how much many of the Parisians hate the damn thing. Castiel is quiet, but then he normally is and Dean doesn't often see him this relaxed, particularly when there are still quite a lot of people milling about along side the river. His Seraph has never been a social butterfly, and crowds of humans seem to put him firmly out of sorts. It's only gotten worse with the sudden manifestations -he doesn't like people he doesn't know walking behind him- so he's handling this excursion surprisingly well.

They keep going up, crossing over  onto  _ Avenue Gabriel, _ at which point, gloating from a certain party member begins that none of the  _ other _ angels amongst them have a road in Paris named after them. To which Castiel points out that there is an entire chunk of Switzerland named  _ Castiel, _ a national heritage site at that, which even Dean admits trumps a road pretty nicely.

Gabriel argues that has nothing to do with Castiel. With the name, according to one smug Gabriel coming from  _ Castellum. _

Castiel glares, but there's no heat in it and he smiles a moment later.

Sam eagerly interjects with a plea for a definition, and Cas spends a few moments seemingly considering it himself before giving a lecture about watch towers and forts. Sam listens so attentively it's like the last ten years have all fallen away and Sam is an eager teenager again.

“So...'Castle', yeah? That's from _Castellum_?” 

The Seraph smiles, pleased that Sam got it in one from his descriptions and Dean yet again thinks that if Cas had to get a boring ass human job. A librarian or teacher would be the perfect place for him. Though, maybe not with kids, he considers; then again, Dean supposes, Castiel's never really spoken to any children, unfortunate meeting with Jesse aside. He sniggers, because Castiel can stand up to demons and Hell-hounds and archangels, but he wouldn't last two minutes with a bunch of kids yowling at him.

They wind up eventually on _Avenue des Champs-_ _Élysées._ Which, hello, is fifty times longer than Dean thought it was. But, what he suffers in distance walked is more than made up for when Gabriel drags them over to a  crêpe stand; the older Winchester gets the biggest pancake he's ever seen made right in front of him, filled to leaking point with melted Chocolate and marshmallows. Gabriel and Sam get melted chocolate and banana, with a few strawberries scattered on top. Castiel looks at them like they've gone mad as they wobble around trying not to drip chocolate everywhere. It takes some pouting and growling, but eventually Dean coaxes the angel to trying some of his. It passes the Castiel test with rather worrying ease and Gabriel crows with delight. From which point, the archangel passes a chocolate covered banana slice to his younger brother and the look in Castiel's eyes is down right fucking scary.

Note to Dean: Castiel _really_ fucking loves melted chocolate and banana slices.

They continue to meander up the most famous road in Paris until Dean spots a glass fronted McDonalds, and corrals the protesting trio in with him. Gabriel sets about haranguing the Winchesters for appalling tastes, because  _hello_ they're in freaking Paris. City of fine foods, (or so the french say) but Dean's heard about the frogs and snails and seriously; fuck that shit. Not today assholes.

Sam takes Gabriel's side and just as Dean turns to Castiel for help, the angel declares  _I will return shortly_ and fucks off, leaving Dean out numbered; sneaky bastard, 'loyal' Dean's smoking hot ass he is.

Dean wins. Because Dean almost always wins when it comes to arguments about food. And seeing as Gabriel's devours his way through two different Mcflurries, he figures that asshat has no legs to stand on If the argument pops back up again. Sam gets a burger, grudgingly, because he's one off those people that reads about fast food and declares that the monstrosities they class as salads are even more unhealthy than the damn burgers. His younger brother cheers up a little when they realise that an American portion isn't quite the same size as the European one, and well, that really strikes a killing blow to Dean's smugness.

Castiel is gone for nearly fifteen minutes, and the trio get caught up in the middle of a debate about whether or not Sam's hair glows when he sings, to which Gabriel is confused and Sam spends a while alluding to some new Disney film in the works. Which naturally, brings into question Dean's random Disney movie knowledge and hidden princess tendencies.

Muttering, Dean declares the whole conversation stupid and moves on with his life. There's not enough man steak in the world for this crap.

Castiel's return is almost entirely without fanfare. Though the table next to them gets shoved a mysterious six inches to the left all by itself. (It had been bolted to the floor, the late night cleaning staff are very confused). When all three sets of eyes turn to him curiously, the Seraph unnecessarily leans forwards consiprationally and smirks around the words “I have it” so seriously that Gabriel roars into laughter and Dean rolls his eyes so hard it actually  _hurts_ .

The Mcsmitey face shows up, Dean laughs into his drink and ends up nearly drowning in three inches of Cola. Castiel seems to judge this as adequate comeuppance and declares it time to leave.

Between howls, Gabriel manages a protest. “Aw, Cassie. Come on. Lighten up a little, we have a couple hours yet. There's no going down under the Basilica during the day to where we're gonna need to go.”

Sam's brow furrows and he glances at the archangel sceptically. “How do you even know that?”

Gabriel shrugs, licking the last of his ice cream from his plastic spoon. “Oh, please. Breaking into the Vatican is one of the best ways to pass the time. They're all so mopey, and boring. And they always get my lines wrong.” The younger Winchester is torn between being scandalised or amused, his face scrunches with the competing emotions and Gabriel sniggers at him lowly. “What? Oh come on. An angel running around the so called  _holiest place on Earth_ right under their noses? I don't care who you are, that's funny.” 

Dean shrugs loosely. “Dude's got a point, Sammy.”

Sighing the sigh of the heavily burdened, Sam screws up his wrappers and throws them away. Castiel looks grateful to be leaving and eagerly follows suit in leaving the fatty smelling building behind. Gabriel shrugs and follows, leaving Dean to jog out or be left behind.

Castiel barely let's them take two steps into the evening sunlight before grabbing hold of their shoulders and leaping into flight. Launching them over eight hundred miles South East.

–


	19. The City Of The Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Italy is a beautiful place.
> 
> Castiel doesn't understand sunglasses.

If Dean had thought the last flight to Paris had been long and nauseating, it's got nothing on the second one. Which strikes the hunter as incredibly odd; Paris had been way further away.

The landing comes with bone rattling force; out of balance and feeling more that a little flight drunk, Dean has to stagger a pace or two forwards just to keep his feet. There's old, smooth, solid stone paving under his feet and the sunset is much darker and cooler than it has any right to be. How inconsiderate.

“Castiel!” Gabriel's voice rings out from somewhere in the dimness behind him, there's a strong tone of worry, and that well and truly snaps Dean out of his daze. Sam glances around them warily and it hits them both that they're inside some narrow weird stone building, lit up by deep yellow lights from illuminated lamps hanging from both walls, and it's not sunlight at all. It's a strange up hill tunnel, the ceiling curling into an enclosing archway in both directions up and down. The hunters turn in tandem just as Gabriel grabs his wavering brother's shoulder. The Seraph is gasping heavily, wings drooping low and feathers spilling across the floor. Enochian, thick and heavy echoes in the tunnel as Gabriel murmurs something faintly. Footsteps softly sound, coming from up the sloping passage way, distant but drawing closer. Castiel is leaning against the tunnel wall as if even the action of lifting his head is beyond him at the moment.

“Gabriel, where are we?!” The older hunter didn't mean to sound so damn angry, but he can't tell who or what the hell is about to bound round that corner, and they only have a limited arsenal.

The archangel whips his head around and snarls darkly. “I'm sorry my brother's Grace is two blinks from shattering in half! How ignorant of me to not leap to your every whimsical demand!” Turning back to his brother, Gabriel spits out another short burst of angry Enochian, chastising the younger angel for all he's worth. The footsteps are becoming louder, but it's taking much longer for someone to appear to match them, how far does this stupid tunnel spiral away for? The archangel huffs impatiently, glaring at his panting sibling. “I thought that damn game of fetch would make you realise what a stupid idea this was, I _told_ you there was no hurry, dumbass.” He it all mutters moodily, tilting his brother's head up to meet his dazed blue gaze.

Ignoring the black look Gabriel's shooting at him, Dean moves to Castiel's other side. “That's not what I meant, Gabriel.” Thankfully, Castiel seems to recover quickly, eyes focusing on the archangel first and then Dean and Sam hovering anxiously in the background of the confining space. The heaving breaths ease into soft pants, and the wings flicker and fade from view like a distant mirage. “You okay, Cas?”

Gabriel scoffs, but there's no time for a snarky comeback because a pair of teenagers waltz past, their soft conversation going quiet and the atmosphere seems particularly icy for the few awkward moments it takes for them to walk past and disappear down around the curving walls.

“I'm...fine, Dean.” Castiel answers eventually. He sounds like he's just swallowed a barrel of original Jack whiskey all in one go, dazed and gravelly all at once.

Sam smiles sympathetically behind them. “Yeah, nice one, man. But try again.”

The angel tilts his head tiredly, trying to lean away from his older brother. But Gabriel just glares and the Seraph doesn't try again. “My Grace is...”

“-Being grossly over used” Gabriel interjects harshly. “A little more and you'd have been in serious fracture risk territory, bro. Why the hell didn't you land sooner? Those lines all over you look like a fucked up game of Tic-Tac-Toe.”

Grunting in irritation, the Seraph pushes away from the wall, tugging out of the archangel's hold and managing to stand firm. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, but Dean catches the slight shaking in them before he does. “We need that weapon, Gabriel. We'll have to get closer on foot. I won't be able to fly that far for a little while.”

Dean doesn't like the way his shoulders hitch up when he says it. There are faint pain lines around his eyes and in the dim yellow light, the blue of his eyes looks almost black. “So...Where are we man?”

Sighing, Castiel points up the ramped floor they're currently standing on. Dean gets the hunch that Gabriel already knows but is keeping silent out of spite. But they follow the Seraph up the ramp anyway.

The yellow lamp glow eventually decreases, faint late evening sunset begins to filter down as they hit open air again. There are a few rooms here and there that they don't stop to look at, black metal railings lining the path occasionally and the odd lone person making their way down and apparently out of the old complex.

It's getting late; it's becoming obvious that they're in a museum and Dean thinks that this place has probably already closed for business. It makes him wary for guards, but the place seems deserted enough for now as they continue to climb.

Castiel seems a little too drawn and winded by the time they get to the roof. But Dean doesn't get to mention it. The sun has almost set, disappearing behind the city skyline and leaving only the occasional deep orange ray to illuminate the sky. Lights are beginning to turn on all over the city and the castle they're standing on, because really, it can't be called anything else, is beginning to be highlighted with great yellow and orange lamps like those back in the tunnel.

There is a river down just in front of the entrance and a hand full of people crossing over a wide stone bridge, marked every few metres by a stone angel. Some standing proud with folded wings, but occasionally carrying swords or crosses. The bridge leads out into a city, but a strange walled walkway catches Dean's eye and he trails it until the silhouette of the imposing Vatican City rises into the skyline.

“We're in Rome?” Dean manages, glancing around the circular roof top they've found themselves on. Another statue above him catches his eye. Another proud angel, wings flared out and sword drawn, hovering a foot or two from it's great sheath. The hunter nearly scoffs, because the real deal is way more impressive, but something about the damn thing has the sound wedged in his throat. It looks absolutely nothing like him. But Dean knows the archangel Michael when he sees it.

“More accurately,” Gabriel begins, clapping Castiel on the shoulder. “Castel Sant'Angelo. _Castle of the Angels._ ”

Sam chuckles lowly, glancing at their resident Seraph. “ _Castellum_ and angels all in one place, huh?”

Castiel responds with a tight, tiny smile. “I was aiming for Saint Peter's Square...I had to land here.” He says it like he's having his teeth pulled and he still looks pale enough that Dean's a little worried the asshole will pass out or something.

“S'fine, Cas. We'll get the shaft tomorrow. Can't be too many people in an area of the Basilica no one else is allowed to go near, right?” Dean notes, coming up past the angel's side to lean against the wall and look out over the Italian city. Castiel leans down next to him just like Dean hoped he would, and there's a brief moment of just taking in the view. The bold amber lights are beginning to reflect off of the river's surface around the _Ponte Sant' Angelo_ , and the darkening sky accentuates every shade of gold even more with each passing moment. The _Passetto di Borgo_ lopes away in a dark streak across the city to the towering Basilica in the distance. The great dome of St. Peter's rises easily above the dark roofed buildings surrounding it. The blue dome haloed by white and yellow lights that seem to grow brighter the closer to the horizon the sun becomes.

There are tourists milling about up and down the wide, lamp lit road between the Castle and the Basilica, tourists and residents enjoying the pretty sites and warm early night air. It's soothing, and calm and nothing like Dean has ever seen in all of his travels across America. Paris was the same, but there is a weird difference between the atmosphere there and here. In the Louvre the world was surrounded by movement, people rushing to get from A to B as quickly as possible. Here, there's still a sense of rush, but it seems muted. It's much calmer here than in Paris. 

“Sometimes, Cassie. I can't tell if the view's improved or not.” Gabriel jokes dryly, coming to lean next to the angel's free side as Sam comes up beside Dean's.

The Seraph scans the horizon for a moment, lingering on the Basilica for a moment or two longer than the rest of the city before sighing softly. “It's called  _Roma Aeterna_ for a reason, brother.” 

“Translation?” Sam prompts eagerly.

Dean mournfully rubs his hand over his face. “Nerds. I'm surrounded by nerds and the elderly.”

Gabriel cackles. “Eternal city, Sambo. Or, well it's actually Eternal Rome, but no one seems to call it that in the guide books, I thought you were good with Latin?”

The younger Winchester shrugs. “Not as good as you two.”

Burying his face in his hands, the older Winchester whines. “God, just get married already, Christ.”

Castiel scoffs quietly, the sound so strange that Dean looked up and stares at him with his eyebrows somewhere in the vicinity of his hairline. “What?”

The angel smiles like it's hurting him, glancing over the city before them and away from Dean's gaze. “That would make us brothers.”

–

They burn the time away somewhat laxly. The foursome watching the sun set and the city coming to life all over again with a beautiful array of lights that has both human's quietly awed, even if Dean would protest if someone dared to say so. Gabriel babbles on for a while, Sam soaking up information like parched sponge, the archangel seems more than thrilled to have the younger Winchester hanging off his every word. Even if it is about the archangel's twisted version of history of all things.

Castiel remains quiet all night, and they stay on that roof until the Seraph is practically swaying on his feet, eyes closing of their own accord. Dean stretches when he's fed up of noticing it, and herds them off down the longest ramp Dean's ever seen, and out and across the  _Ponte Sant' Angelo_ . It takes a while, but they find a small hotel with two double rooms and Castiel all but passes out on the bed the moment he lays down. Enormous ebony wings shimmering into sight as he does so.

It's almost eleven o'clock at night when they're finally settled in the hotel. They're still running on South Dakota time of roughly four in the afternoon, but all three find it easy to go to bed, Dean opting to share the room with the clocked out Seraph and sending Sam down the hallway with the archangel in tow. It's been a long ass two days and they could all do with the rest.

–

Dean wakes up with the dawn.

He grumbles about it into his pillow and slaps his hand across the white bedside table until he finds his phone and snaps it open. It declares 05:02 am at him in an obnoxiously garish green light. Groaning, he drops the thing somewhere on the bedspread and levers himself stiffly up right. It was only a small hope that he would sleep until the Italian version of mid morning after the six hours of daytime he'd had yesterday. But he's still disappointed he's going to have to hang around waiting for the others to get up.

Even as he thinks it, the Seraph curled up on the other bed stirs with the hunter's grumbling, blinking open gritty, sleep filled eyes, squinting through the dim morning light leaking in through the hotel windows.

The angel's voice is a small weary mumble, stumbling around the simple, single syllable sound of his name. “...Dean?”

The hunter snorts, standing and barely brushing along the outer edge of a wing which has spent the night draped off the mattress and spread along the floor. “Go back to sleep, Cas.” He orders quietly, stretching stiff muscles and glancing around for his duffel before he remembers the stupid green rucksacks.

Castiel's bleary gaze follows him for a moment, before he mutters something indiscernible and settles back down into his nest of duvet and feathers and promptly goes back to sleep, a tuft of messy brown hair poking out of the top.

Dean blinks at him stupidly for a moment, half-expecting the angel to grumble and get up regardless of what the hunter said. Shrugging, he grabs his bag, rummages for some clothes, and hits the shower. The hotel is a little different from what Dean's used to. It's four stars for a start, swallowing up almost 210 Euros of however much money is on the card Sam's carrying. It's called _Hotel Genio,_ all marble floors in the reception and strange patterned red carpets everywhere else. It's a nice place, clean in a way most American motels decidedly aren't. Not to mention the amazing shower and free buffet breakfast which is somewhere up on the roof.

Scrawling down a hasty note and smirking as he carefully tucks it between the last two flight feathers of Castiel's twitching right wing, he waltzes from the room and makes the breakfast buffet his first stop. Despite the neo-renaissance style of the building, there's still air conditioning and an elevator up the six floors between them and the roof. It's warmer than he expected it to be at a little past six, and the only people up here are two tired waiting staff setting out the early morning buffet in the strengthening sunlight. There are large potted plants dotted about, small round tables scattered around the roof with encircling silver sun chairs on large white roof tiles. It's strangely...pretty. God, his brothers and those damn angels are ruining his manliness.

Castel Sant'Angelo is a little way away, and the hunter can see the statue of the archangel Michael perched upon the roof from where he stands at the entrance. The Basilica of Saint Peter seems closer than ever when he picks a table beside the wall, and he wastes a few minutes mindlessly staring at it and Vatican city, pondering over the fact that all those _holy_ people never even knew the apocalypse was happening. The devil himself was walking around and Michael was trying to kill not only Lucifer, but most of the world along with him.

Dean envies their ignorance.

The scrape of a chair moving jerks him from his musings, Sam dropping down opposite him first, and then Gabriel a few seconds later. “Couldn't sleep either, huh?” Dean drawls, nodding in thanks at his brother when Sam clunks a cup of coffee in front of him.

“Guessing baby brother has no such problem. Eh, Deano?” The archangel jokes, giving him a weird ass grin and waggling his eyebrows. Dean's glare shuts him up.

Sam shakes his head with a low noise of ' _ugh_ ' muttered below his breath. There's an odd pause, and his younger brother seems strained when he continues. “Think Cas can get the shaft, _and_ fly us five thousand miles home?”

Dean glanced back at Saint Peter's. Something seems different today. Like this is the last good day before something big goes down. He hates days like this. “Anyone else feel like crap's about to hit the fan?”

Gabriel chuckles darkly, he's drinking _tea_ of all things. “Took the words right outta my mouth, Winchester.”

Conversation is stunted for a little while after that, minutes passing as the city slowly starts to wake up. Naturally, Gabriel is the one to break it, staying quiet never has been his strongest point. The midget doesn't say anything though, snapping his fingers instead; a tiny sugar coated gum drop appears on the table mat in front of him. The two humans stare at the red candy dumbly for a moment, the archangel grinning like he's achieved the best thing in the world.

“Dude.” Sam exclaims, picking up the small sweet and eyeing it carefully. “You getting your mojo back?”

Dean hasn't seen the wounds littering the archangel's chest and back for quite a while now. There are still a few really faint red lines and occasional pale bruise littering his arms and face that you would have to know were there before you could really take any notice of them. Castiel had been healing them on and off during their stay at Bobby's, and if it wasn't for the occasional glimpse at the top of a bandage past the archangel's neckline, Dean would have thought him healed. At least on the surface, anyway.

There's still a careful stiffness to how he moves. Never bouncing too high or hard like the hunters would expect from him before; but he's also not moving like the walking wounded anymore either.

“Not as much as you'd think, Kiddo...” Gabriel smiles dryly, plucking the small candy from Sam's calloused fingers and popping in his mouth. “That's about it.” He grimaces as he says it, like just creating the small thing has drained him dry. He's still sleeping and eating after all. Great, if Raphael attacks, they can scare him away with a limited supply of small gummy candies.

Breakfast is glorious.

Dean stacks his plate to a healthy man standard and practically juggles his way back to the table. Sam grimaces over his orange juice as his brother sits down. Gabriel has snagged most of the small honey and marmalade pots they provide in small wicker baskets along side the hot food and is half spreading it on his cornettos, half drinking it from the damn pots.

Castiel proves adeptly that he doesn't need his wings to scare the crap out of Dean, and they nearly have to plan a detour to the nearest hospital when the hunter practically inhales an entire crostata in surprise. With Cas-tastrophe averted (The archangel's words, not Dean's), Gabriel pushes a pot of honey to his brother and the sleep eyed angel nicks a cornetto from the archangel's carefully guarded hoard, dunks it as much as he can, and takes a bite.

The other three stare at him incredulously. It's _weird_ to see Castiel just eating food without being pressed. Dean doesn't actually think the angel is awake yet; his hair is sticking in every direction, eyes half mast and sleepy, and there's a solid weight leaning against the hunter's side where the angel is too tired to hold his wings up properly yet. The Seraph perks up a little when he seems to realise what he's doing, considering the small pastry in his hand curiously like he's surprised it's there, dripping honey and wild berry sauce onto the bright white table cloth. Then the dunking continues and he munches the rest of it contently enough and the world spins on like normal.

–

They leave the hotel a little after eight. Packs secured to the hunters' shoulders and point hidden God only knows where on Castiel.

The seraph is keeping a hold of his stupid coat. It's warm here already and Dean knows it will be hotter here soon than it was in Paris yesterday evening. Gabriel looks much the same as normal, sporting a grey tight fit t-shirt instead of the red shirt from the day before. Dean had spent an hour or so the night before slitting a few t-shirts and a dark blue jacket for Castiel, and he's sporting a black v-neck and a new darker pair of jeans.

There's a moment of hilarity when they begin their trek across the small distance to Vatican City. Dean spotting sunglasses and vanishing for a few moments and returning back to the group, Slipping them on Castiel's face before the angel knows what's happening. Gabriel laughs for a full three seconds before Dean snags him too and a grimace spreads along the archangels lips at the cheapness of his tacky lenses. The Seraph tilts his head, glancing around the now colour muted world and Dean can't help snickering.

Uncertain, the Seraph falls back into step with them as Dean chucks Sam his pair “...Dean?” The angel asks, quizzically regarding the hunter through his new specs, like he knows this is a human thing to do but doesn't understand why.

Guffawing, Dean nudges the angel playfully. A mix and match of wild hair, dark sunglasses and winter coat. “Rocking the movie star look, Cas. Y'know, aside from that coat.”

Frowning in response, something wide, flat and soft, bats the back of Dean's head gently. “I like my coat, Dean.”

“Dude! Did you just swat me?”

“Angels don't _“swat_ ”, Dean” The angel drones boredly.

“Felt like a swat to me, dumbass”

Gabriel snickers from a safe distance. “Now, now, kids. Behave.”

Castiel shoots his older brother a flat look just as Sam snorts from his other side.

Bristling, Dean sneers at the archangel. “Like you can talk, Flap-for-Brains. You're the biggest kid of them all...Or should I say shortest.”

“Oooh, witty come-back, Deano. Did you overhear it from that little old lady over there?”

Sam sighs the sigh of a tired parent and the arguing continues.

–

_Via della Conciliazione_ is another one of those roads which is way longer than you think it'll be. Not quite to the Champs-Élysées standard, but still involves a ten minute trek. Eventually they follow the throngs of early tourists up the street until Saint Peter's square opens up beneath their feet as they pass through the low black gates marking the site off from  _Largo degli Alicorni._ There are strange wooden fence things organising the smallish crowd of tourists, and man that's going to take forever to get through.

There's a small unexpected jolt of angelic flight, and they're suddenly in the centre of the square, confusion knocking about Dean's head as he stares at a fountain that wasn't in his path before. 

“Dude, warning.” Dean grouches, prodding the unseen limbs at his side. Castiel jumps a little at the touch and the hunter turns to hide his snigger.

Ruffled, Castiel scans the site like an old raven. It's not a square like the name implies. A wide curving space, filled with cobbles and occasional lighter streaks of light grey slabs filling up the area where there are gaps in the crowd. The buildings along the edges are fronted by huge tall stone columns; perched on the roof above each of which, is an imposing white statue, each a Saint of some grave importance looking over the faithful. The closed end of the square is filled with the imposing sight of  _Basilica di San Pietro_ itself, the large white steps disappearing behind columns of it's own and into the so called holiest building on Earth. 

Gabriel snorts darkly, glancing up at the iconic blue dome in front of them. Castiel shoots him a dire glare. “Is something funny, brother?”

The speed at which the content atmosphere of the group changes surprises even Dean. The archangel had been silent since they entered the square, and Castiel went from his usual uptight posture to bow string tense in a heartbeat.

The archangel doesn't snap like the hunters expect, giving his younger brother a sad look instead, eyes far older than his vessel should make them seem. “No, Castiel.” Sighing, Gabriel stares at the steps leading into the old building. “I make a point of avoiding this part of Rome for serious visits.”

There is so much history written into his words. Dean forgets so often just how  _old_ Castiel and Gabriel are. The skins they're wearing are cloaks, mirages. Nature at her fiercest locked inside a coat of humanity. Sometimes he wonders why they don't scare him like they should do.

The Seraph gives a soft sigh, apology written in just the way he loosens. “I think we all do.” He adds quietly, and Dean can't help but notice the way Gabriel raises his eyebrows at the way his brother refers to their whole family. As if he's forgotten.

Glancing over at his brother, Sam shrugs helplessly at him and the pair just stand awkwardly off to the side while the angel reject pile have a moment together. Luckily, Gabriel's happy-go-lucky charade falls into place like an iron wall a moment later and he nudges his Seraph brother playfully. “Let's hope Balthy was right about this, eh Bro? The last time I heard about part of this thing was in Constantinople like six hundred years ago...”

“Can you sense it?” Sam asks, doubtfully scanning the huge site. The place is huge and this makes the point hunt in Paris look like child's play.

Castiel tilts his head at the Basilica. “I should be able to find it easier with the point in my possession, but I can't tell from this distance. This is a vast site, and the tunnels beneath the ground go for an even further distance.

Dean glances at the cobble stones under his boots. “What is this place? A scene from Indiana Jones?”

An elderly couple walking past gives them all a filthy look. “Dean.” Sam adds, a mild bitch-face twisting his features. _Decorum, Dean_.

Chortling, the older Winchester nudges against the invisible form of Castiel's left wing. “Dude, literally next to angels. I actually feel a little sorry for these people.”

His brother puffs up, but Gabriel beats him to the punch. “Easy there, Deano. Sure, we're not what they think of when it comes to angels. But after thousands of years down here with you guys, let me tell you that faith in something keeps a lot of these people sane. There's nothing wrong with believing in something, even if it's not real, if it helps people.”

Dean rolls his eyes, not even sure why he's fighting the point. He's seen what happens to all of them when they've lost faith in something, what happens when they're let down. “You say that like you're not an ex-murderer.”

“I don't hurt people for having faith, Dean.” The archangel shoots him a disappointed look. “Hello. Archangel of _justice_ , I hurt assholes that rain on other people's faith.” There's a _kinda like you're doing now_ tacked silently on the end there.

“Can we not do this in one of the busiest tourist spots on Earth, please.” Sam snaps, giving both a stern look. “We have to wait here for Cas to get back and getting arrested in the Vatican is not a life goal I'm aspiring to have.”

Glancing around, Dean couldn't spot that damn trench coat anywhere. “Huh? Quiet for a giant blackbird wannabe.”

–

Castiel is gone for a worrying amount of time. The mid morning sun is starting to kick up the heat and the trio perch on the fountain side, the tall structure providing some shade. Church bells all over the place announce the nine o'clock mark and there's still no angel.

“Seems kinda poetic that a Seraph is currently lost inside St. Peter's, doesn't it?” Sam notes dully half an hour later. Dean grumbles his agreement and slouches back along the fountain, almost forgetting the archangel's beside him until he's staring up at the asshole.

“Can't you tell where your brother is?” The older Winchester snaps moodily when the archangel raises an amused eyebrow at him.

Laughing, Gabriel gestures around them. “Why the rush, Road-runner? This could be one of the last days of the world, live a little.”

Dean growls. “I would totally be Wile E. Coyote.” The hunter snorts drily to himself. “Cas could be some weird version of batman with those wings of his.” The idea amuses him more than it should do, “a twisted angelic Men In Black thing going on.”

Gabriel actually laughs. “ _The Seraph in Steel.”_

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “They're too dark for that.”

Snorting the archangel watches him expectantly. “Oh, yeah? What've you got then?”

“ _Angel In Ebony.”_ The hunter throws back easily.

“ _Seraph In Sable”_ Gabriel amends smirking.

Dean chortles. “ _Dull In Dark.”_

“Deano.” The archangel snickers slyly, “have you _seen_ him?”

“...Shut up.”

Sam sighs again.

–

Another few minutes pass quietly, and Dean does begrudgingly enjoy the warm morning and just the sound of _people_ living their lives around them. It's a bit ruined when two screaming children run up to the fountain and start climbing onto the walls and splash around while howling in German.

The hunter is snarling murder to himself as a drop gets him straight in the eye, a sharp gust of wind rips through the area and two identical splashes ring out as the kids are blown straight in. Shrill undignified squeaks breaks out just as Dean glances up, Castiel staring at the hunter impassively.

“Did you do that on purpose?” Gabriel asks with a chuckle, watching as the two nine year old looking kids get scolded by their over-tired parents and are dragged off into the crowds dripping fountain water every where.

Castiel tilts his head. “Do what?”

Huffing, Dean jumps up and stretches. “You really _aren't_ the most graceful angel are you?”

Sam rolls his eyes and fixes his pack to his back. “You find it okay?”

There isn't a giant stick of wood on the angel, but that doesn't really mean anything. “It was difficult to locate. But I found it. The colourful guard seemed very surprised.”

Stumbling to a halt, Dean gives him and incredulous stare. Because _Er...What?_ “You let them _see_ you?”

Oh, wow. That was a hard scowl even for Castiel; Dean throws up his hands in defence. “Of course not, Dean.”

Snickering breaks out from behind them, but Dean couldn't say who it came from when he turns to glare at his brother and archangel. “Jeez. Okay. Touchy touchy.”

The scowl morphs into a sharp glower and there's a small reaching movement for the two Winchesters before Gabriel grabs his brother's wrist to stop him.“Hold up there, Zulu. Think you can do this?” Castiel frowns at him in put upon irritation and Gabriel rolls his eyes. “I'm serious, bro. That wing of yours is still on the wrong side of the long distance, fit-to-fly line. _Dad knows_ , I wouldn't want to do this.”

“It's only five thousand miles, Gabriel.” Shrugging off the archangel, the Seraph rests both palms on the Winchesters' shoulders, pausing just long enough for Sam to grab the archangel's arm. “It's not that bad.”

“Tell that to my stomach.” Dean mutters, nervously eyeing the Seraph from the corner of his eye. He can't quite believe that he's trusting the angel to do this all over again. And it doesn't help that this time, where they're going is even further away.

He barely catches the confusion in those startling blue eyes before they're launched from the world and into the morning sky.

–

The tornado of forces that accompanies angelic flight disappears in a flurry of dust and darkness. The violent jolt of the ground returning still surprises Dean and he doubts there'll be a time when it doesn't. The older Winchester had kept a tight grip on the sleeve of Castiel's stupidly unnecessary coat from the moment the hunter had felt the wings spreading. And now that they've landed again, the pull on the fabric warns Dean that Castiel hasn't landed as steadily as he'd hoped he would.

The Seraph stumbles forward and Dean has him braced against the front of his shoulder before he's even opened his eyes, blinking tentatively, the hunter can just about see the night sky through the maelstrom of dirt that's been wildly whipped up.

Wrecks slowly come into view around the small group as the dust begins to settle around them. And the faded blue paint of Bobby's old house rises up next to them in a grim silhouette against the stars.

“Sonuva bitch, Cas.” The hunter mutters numbly, holy hell his angel is awesome.

“Thank you, Dean” The Seraph grumbles dryly from where Dean's bracing him upright, shoulder to shoulder. He's breathing like a surfacing drowning victim who's split seconds from death but Dean forgives him like the generous guy he is for resting his forehead against Dean's shoulder like a girl. Dude's dead on his feet after all, enormous black wings slack from his shoulder and spilling about the floor.

Gabriel whistles lowly, grinning at his baby brother like a proud parent. “Never knew you had it in you, Cassie!” Tilting his head, the archangel snorts. “I lied. I knew you could do it, Dumbo.”

A non-committal groan answers him from somewhere in the folds of Dean's jacket. That seems to be all that Castiel has to say on the subject.

A high pitch yapping sound kicks up frantically in the house. The sound migrating from the second floor and then down to the first. Scratching starts at the back door and Castiel perks up slightly from his slouch. Grimacing tiredly, Castiel lifts his aching wings and trudges unsteadily past the now very dusty Impala and back towards the house.

Bobby is stomping down the stairs with a shotgun in one hand and a silver dagger in the other when the foursome stumble into the library. Castiel barely glances at him, wavering a little bit on his feet, before shuffling up the stairs to the room him and Dean seemed to have claimed. The four watch him leave with matching looks of surprise. Uzziel follows him excitedly up the stairs, wagging her stubby tail like a whip and nipping at his boots before they both disappear.

“When the Hell did my house become an angelic pit stop?” The older hunter grouches tiredly, eyeing them for injury and a head count.

Sam smiles wearily, sinking onto the couch with a soft sigh of relief to be home. “Nah, give him this one, Bobby.”

“I thought Balthazar said that you guys have to fly to get better?” Dean adds, glancing at Gabriel as the archangel sinks down beside Sam.

The Trickster snorts. “Physiotherapy, Deano. Hurts like a bitch. Without the old angelic healers up top to fix it properly, old Cassie's lucky he can even move it.”

To which Dean is somewhat worried that maybe Castiel would've been better off if they _had_ prayed for another angel all that time ago back in Hugoton; But there's another small part of him weirdly proud that he's given the angel his flight back at all...Even if it isn't perfect.

–

“It's a stick, man.” Dean complains blandly late the next evening, by USA standards anyway.

Castiel gives him a flat, unimpressed, _you simpleton_ look out of the corner of his eye. Dean feels it's within his right to take issue and pulls a face in rather justified retaliation. The look that spreads across the angel's face is that of a cat that has suffered grave offence, glaring stormily and looking away as if the hunter's irritating actions are childish and therefore below an angel's station to address. The shaft of the Lance isn't unlike that of the Lance of Olyndicus, (that Dean still doesn't know exactly what happened to); brown, old, plain and boring.

It's tall, Gabriel's height easily and it hangs unceremoniously off either end of Bobby's table, balancing precariously on a few stacks of lore books, an empty light bulb carton and a box labelled _Cat bones._ And, no. Dean doesn't know why that's out on the table either.

The point is a little more interesting. Probably just because it's a blade. It's a dark metal, with a round metal hollow to allow attachment to a shaft before the blade begins emerging from the raised, circular centre that runs almost to the tip. It's not even particularly wide, two or three inches max at the base, dipping near the middle before widening again into a leaf shaped blade that tapers off into a point. It's only decoration comes from small raised bands of metal starting a little after the tip and repeating at intervals down the blade. Hell experience tells the older Winchester it's to rip and tear more than for decoration.

Despite it's length, which is at least his hand span and probably more, it's hardly what Dean thinks of when holy weapons are mentioned.

“You think this is gonna work?” Sam says, somewhat doubtfully. The younger Winchester is eyeing the pair of relics with a typical hunter's caution, God knows they've put up with enough crap from old weapons that have had some freaky-ass curses placed on them over the years.

Gabriel hums, looking at the blade like it might leap up and bite him. It must be a weird situation, going from knowing almost nothing can kill you, to being reduced to almost human with a weapon capable of doing him harm right there in front of him other than his own sword. “I don't like these things. More trouble than they're worth.”

“Not that this ain't at all fascinating.” Bobby snaps out impatiently. “But can we get this sticker in one piece and outta my house?!”

Castiel nods solemnly. “You are right, if news about this breaks out, we will have the Host on us in moments.”

 _Yeah, no thanks,_ Dean thinks bitterly. Angels are assholes enough on their own, let alone as a whole douche brigade.

Glancing at Dean quickly while reaching for the point, Castiel gestures to the door. “You three should wait outside, I've only seen this done twice before, and never myself.”

The older Winchester puffs up for an argument, because they're human, not children. But Gabriel's snickering cuts him off. “Easy, Tiger. Baby Bro is right. If you want to keep your eyesight, you gotta hit the road for a few minutes.”

“Will I get to keep my _house_?” Bobby grouches, begrudgingly getting out of his chair and glaring balefully at the Trickster.

Shrugging nonchalantly, the archangel flaps his hand absently. “Who knows...”

Muttering fierce and anatomical impossibilities about angels and their love of screwing up his life, Bobby drags the Winchester's out of the door with him. Leading them out of the yard and only stopping when they reach the other side of the lead-in road.

“Don't see why _they_ couldn't leave my house.” He grumbles darkly, frowning at his old worn house through the hot afternoon sun.

Sam is watching the building worriedly. “I saw Castiel checking the wards earlier. I think it's hiding what they're doing from Heaven.” He stares of a few moments more, perking up a little when the porch door opens briefly and Uzziel comes bolting happily down the drive and over to them; leaping around their feet and mauling Dean's shoe laces. “Guess Cas wasn't happy we left the scamp behind...”

The older Winchester grumbles and shakes his boot gently, trying to dislodge the menace. “I could think of worse things...” It fools none of them, but Dean's glare is enough to stop them saying anything about it and the other hunters just smirk and look away.

Dean doesn't even get to call them out on it. One minute the house is sitting there just like always, and the next, blinding white light erupts from every single window and crevice. Wisps of the blazing radiance curls around the place like gentle, curious fingers, and even from where they're standing, the glare is too much for them to take. It's over in seconds, the burning sensation against their closed eyelids easing away and when they tentatively open them again the house is still there, as if they've all imagined it.

“Small miracles.” Bobby grouses, stomping without hesitance back over the empty road and across the lot. Uzziel cowers for a second or two, shivering behind Dean's boots until the Winchesters follow Bobby's suit and she trails after them in small crouching steps.

Papers that Bobby has spent the last two days rearranging after the last flight out of the house, are now spread back across every visible surface; Bobby's face darkens a few shades as he glares blackly at the rather sheepish looking angels. The spear is whole again, and now the blade is a gleaming dark grey, sharp and war ready. The shaft is still battered and scuffed, but there are elegant lines and engravings trailing up and down, the level of detail stunning and beautiful. The blade too is engraved, old script that Dean doesn't even recognise flattering the blades' surface and Dean grumbles that _okay, maybe it does look like a spear, not a stick_.

Gabriel's humoured _“Sorry, Grandpa.”_ Is swallowed completely by Dean shooting out “What's wrong, Cas?” The Seraph's gone from gently placing the Lance back down, to ram-rod straight. His wings blink out of existence and the weapon along with them, a scowl settling on his face as he spins to face the kitchen with murder in his eyes.

“Hello, boys.” A smooth, fucking damn unwanted, English voice drawls from the double sliding doors. Crowley standing lazily in the doorway, hands shoved ever in his suit pockets, smiling at them like he's found food for his damn overgrown mutt.

Gabriel had turned at the same moment his younger brother had, and the confidence in Crowley's eyes wavers for a moment when demon and archangel spot each other. It's a damn beautiful thing to witness. Dean slots the memory away under the name _Things I Never Thought I'd Be Grateful To Gabriel For_.

“Why, if it isn't old Crowelers!” Gabriel grins, bouncing on his heels and shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

“What the hell do you want!?” Dean snaps, taking a step forwards past the archangel. Before, Dean might have thought that Gabriel was just being his usual obnoxious self, nonchalant in the face of the danger that the demon potentially brings to the humans in the room. But the hunter does know better. Gabriel's injuries may be much healed, but going up against the King of Hell doesn't seem like something he'd be able to handle just yet. There's a dangerous gleam in those whiskey coloured eyes, but it's not unease. It's possessive.

Crowley isn't wanted here. They need to get rid of him.

Dean had forgotten that Castiel had saved Gabriel from being dragged into Hell when they took out those demons at the _Elysian_. The human knows for a fact that a weak archangel in Hell's hands would've made his own torture look like a holiday cruise.

The hunter's instincts are roiling, he can taste Gabriel's hidden fury in the air.

“Ah, Squirrel. Always such a gracious host.” The demon drones out flatly, eyeing up their small tense posse. Then his eyes fix on Castiel like a starving vulture, raking him apart with his glare. Dean bristles and leans in closer to the Seraph. “This _is_ a surprise, little bird. Raphael is under the impression that he's had you assassinated...”

There's none of the quiet calm air that usually hangs around the Seraph. His eyes are narrowed, icy and calculating. “What do you want, demon?” He asks grimly, he will _not_ be ordered to explain himself to a filthy hell-spawn demon.

Crowley's eyes narrow, before he snorts quietly and his eyes stretch out behind the angel's shoulders. “Not quite up to scratch are you, munchkin?” Castiel glares and the demon wisely slides his evaluating gaze to the archangel. The demon whistles. “And _you,_ brother dear made you sound like more of a threat. You can't even _fly_ can you? Baby bird has had his wings clipped.”

Dean'd thought the demon was pushing his luck with Castiel. But Gabriel doesn't have the patience of his brother, and the glower of his face and flickering lamps warn that shit is well and truly about to hit the fan.

Thankfully, his enormous baby brother breaks in. “What? You mean, Raphael thinks Gabe's at full mojo?” Sam decodes suspiciously.

The demon sighs heavily. “Ugh, morons. Listen up, mutton-heads! Here's the deal, Raphael is going on a...power trip, shall we say. Castiel dear over there has been leading a bit of a revolution and it's got to stop.”

“Balthazar told me that Raphael is dealing in arms.” Castiel steps forwards beside Dean, glaring flatly at the intruder. “With you?” That was no question.

Crowley smirks. “Got it in one, angel darling. Basically, Purgatory.”

The demon says it with a smile. Not for the first time, Dean thinks the world _predator_. There's not a shred of concern for anybody else but itself, not other demons, not for Hell. Nothing. “Purgatory? Like, I've died and need to be judged, Purgatory?”

Castiel simply answers; “No. More like Monster Heaven.”

_Okay then._

“Sucking souls from Purgatory?” Gabriel spits darkly, his humour is gone. This is no time for jokes.

“Could that do it?” Sam asks quietly, his face has gone pale, a real deep fear in his eyes. “Give Raphael enough power to break the cage?”

Gabriel snorts angrily. “Break the cage, wipe out the host, destroy the world? Sure.” Pausing, the archangel glances back at the demon. “But anybody, who's anybody knows that sucking in souls like that is as good as dead. Only Michael could, possibly, handle that much power for more than a few hours.

“Worse than that.” Castiel interjects, “Raphael would attempt to destroy the barrier with Purgatory completely, the damage that would cause to Hell would be irreparable.”

Dean raises his eye brows. “Damage Hell, huh?” That doesn't sound so particularly horrific to Dean.

The Seraph glances over to him, shaking his head. “Don't be naïve, Dean. To damage Hell, is to damage Earth. Raphael has lost his mind.”

“What's in it for you?” Bobby shoots on, glaring at the demon with utter hatred. “What do you want? Another _soul_ perhaps?” He spits the words out and slams his empty bottle back down onto the table.

Dean promises himself that as soon as this shitfest is over they are getting Bobby out of his deal.

The demon rolls his eyes. “Think about it, you twits. Lucifer out of the cage? Armageddon? Me on the throne after trying to kill him? End of all demon kind? Any of this _ringing a bell!?”_ His shout echoes around the building and Dean hears a low rumbling growl in the Seraph's throat, too quiet for the others to notice. The hunter wonders if Crowley knows just how much he's pushing his luck. Then the demon jerks his hand out of his pocket and throws a rumpled up ball of paper at Sam's surprised face. “How about you hit up this warehouse, kill the bastard and do your jobs for once!”

Snarling, the green-eyed hunter gestures to the creature standing in the doorway. “You're using us! You're too much of a coward to handle this yourself and we're taking the fall!”

Crowley's usual cool demeanour snaps, the lights flickering and shutters slamming. “That bastard is putting me in a corner, you arsehole! I assumed that the dumb-arse hunters and their winged pets actually had a decent store of angel mojo, well look how that's turned out.”

Dean plants his feet. “No.”

The word throws the demon a little. Then he menaces a step closer, because even Crowley has a patience limit. Castiel mirrors the movement, a clear threat in his steel blue eyes. _Touch him_ , _I'll kill you_. “We are not your Hell-hounds, demon.” Castiel rumbles, static flashing on the air, a faint white outline gracing the angel's features. “If we are to do this, you will return Bobby Singer's soul. Whole and intact, with the paralysis in his legs gone.”

Crowley's eyes narrow to slits, fury in his shoulders. But Crowley is a businessman if nothing else, and Dean can see him weighing up the options; Hell, or the leverage the soul provides. “No. I'll find someone else.”

Gabriel laughs, spite lacing his tone. “No. You won't. Return the soul.”

Bobby is glancing warily between all of them. Surprise on his face that this is coming up now of all times. But he doesn't dare say anything.

What feels like an age passes. The room silent and tense. But, eventually, the demon rolls his eyes, raising his hands and Bobby gasps as inflamed symbols rise up under his skin, coating his arms in letters like hot coals. It's over just as suddenly, the lettering fading with the demon's hands. Castiel gives a faint nod of acceptance and Bobby blows out a breath like he's been holding it for months.

“Happy now?” Crowley grouches lowly, glaring at the Seraph. “Remember, kids. Kill the archangel _before_ he absorbs the souls, those Leviathans will kill him eventually, and believe me, Leviathan in archangel armour is not something you want to mess with.” He turns on his heel, ignoring Dean's yelled _Hey!_ And waves over his shoulder. “Oh. You might want to hurry....The ritual is in an hour's time. Toodles.”

Then he is gone.

–


	20. Star Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end is nigh, and it's only just beginning to sink in for the older Winchester that maybe he's wasted too much time these last two weeks...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I know this is really late. But it's been a really rough two weeks for me, so I hope you can forgive me.

\--

The next hour is a furious blur to Dean.

They've known the big crunch was coming for a while now, the hunter could feel it in his bones; the deep, raw anticipation of the big end fight, the never ending apprehension that their little misfit group is probably going to get mercilessly torn apart.  
Despite all of that, this is still way too sudden.

They aren't anything near being ready; Castiel isn't fully recovered from the cross-continental flights, Gabriel is still about as useful as a single chopstick. They don't have the lore, or any idea what the ritual will be like, or any Intel about what they will be walking into.

The goddamn world is about to end on Monday the fucking 27th of July. They're not ready and Dean's always really kind of hated Mondays.

It's a mad scramble for weapons and any form of feasible plan. There isn't one. Of course there isn't one. They're going up against an _archangel_. And really, it's not something they've ever actually done. They only ever thought Gabriel was a Trickster when they were trying to kill the insufferable ass. Only ever trapped Raphael. And apart from the attempt with the colt on Lucifer, they've never tried to kill the other two either, only trap them or distract them. One of these attempts got two of them killed. Another attempt wound up with Dean dying stuck on a weird repeat.

Not a great track history.

Really the Lunar eclipse probably should have been a warning. Just once, can't they have a night where an eclipse isn't fucking something up?

The atmosphere in the old musty library is suffocating.

Bobby is staying behind. The older hunter had put up one Hell of a fight about it. But Castiel had calmly droned out that his soul's seal of possession being returned will make it vulnerable for a few hours. If Raphael absorbed the souls, chances are that Bobby's would be drawn in too. The hunter hates it, he’d argued that if they were all gonna die, what did that matter? But the Winchesters weren’t having it, it’s one thing to die, another entirely to be sucked into a messed up archangel on a power trip with all the scourge Purgatory has to offer. He’s being left behind while the boys march off to what will probably being their deaths, and he’s fuming about it. But there's nothing he can do.

There's only minutes to spare when they've finally got all their gear and are stood around in the library tensely. There's no way they can drive to the place, it's in the middle of bumfuck nowhere over four hundred miles away. “Eleventh hour, boys.” Gabriel mumbles quietly, glancing around the little circle. A rare honest affection in his eyes that stuns the older Winchester a little bit. “Let's get to it.” Resignation and sadness flood those old whiskey coloured eyes; they're going to kill his brother, or die trying. There is nothing about this that Gabriel has left to joke about.

“Oh, please.” Dean begs sarcastically. “Let's not do the last words, crap.”

Sam sends him a bitch-face and Dean grins back. His baby brother snorts, and the brothers simply nod to each other. This isn't the first time they've been on the death march. They know what the other wants to say. They know, so it doesn't need to be done.

“You boys be _careful._ ” Bobby growls, watching them fiercely. His old eyes flicker over to Castiel and Gabriel. “ _All_ of you.” He tacks on meaningfully.

Castiel looks genuinely surprised at the inclusion, tilting his head, eyes wide and stunningly young; he’s always been more of the opinion that the old hunter merely tolerated the Seraph in the house for the Winchesters’ sake. Gabriel chortles, clapping both of them on the back, ignoring Bobby's dark scowl. Dean glances over to the Seraph, tugging against the trenchcoat sleeve. Castiel immediately gives him his full attention, and the hunter just smirks. “Let's go, Cas.”

The smile stays on Dean's face even as the huge, beautiful black wings rise at Castiel's back, the tips stretching as much as the room will allow, savouring one last flight. They're probably going to die, but the smile never abates. He’d give anything not to have the others do this with him. But, after all. There are worse people to go to your death with.

–

The flurry of hasty a flight leaves Dean dazed for a heartbeat. There's dirty grey concrete under his feet. Stark, surgical lighting bouncing off of grimy white tile walls. It's fucking freezing cold down here, and Dean's been in enough creepy warehouses to know they're in some kind of weird broken lab/morgue like basement.

That's all the look around he gets. In one moment there's quiet, the next Castiel leaps away and full body tackles Raphael from his feet where he's standing opposite some bloody looking sigil and chanting deeply. The line work is detailed and dizzyingly complicated, sprawling across the filthy tiles and dripping blood across the floor along the wall.

Then all hell breaks loose. Five demons jump the younger archangel and two hunters from every angle, appearing from their lurking places behind the tiled support pillars. The blood work is on the other side of the room, jars and ingredients spread out over what looks like an old hospital gurney in front of it. The altar. He _has_ to get there.

Dean drives Ithuriel's blade through the first demon's chest. A hulking giant of a man, muscles of steel lining his entire body. Trust these demons to pick the health fitness freaks to possess, as if the supernatural strength by itself isn't bad enough. He catches sight of Sam slitting the throat of a young woman that looks fit enough to be on an Olympic triathlon team. A pang of sadness hits Dean's chest. These people had probably spent their entire lives leading healthy boring lifestyles, and now they have an entity of pure evil rammed down their throats.

Shoving it all down as hard as he can, Dean tackles the body builder that's crowding Gabriel's back. The archangel himself parries the stab at his chest from one of the other demon's stolen angel blade with his own and grabs the wrist of another. Hauling the two in, he drives the blade of one demon through the gut of the other. Stabbing the throat of the remaining seething creature still caught in his grasp. The two drop to the floor, sparking in death throes at the archangel's feet.

Sam is already turning on his heel, spinning to find the altar. This wasn't supposed to take this long. They only have one plan and it _has_ to work. Get in, destroy the altar. Do it before-.

A sharp, bitten off grunt of pain echoes from behind them and Dean barely has time to look over before Castiel is smashing through the metre thick concrete of the pillar beside them, small pieces of concrete flying everywhere like shrapnel. There's a puff of grey dust that sinks down into their lungs and through the coughing, Dean sees the Seraph hit the wall like a grey bullet. Cracks spreading up the wall at the impact, tiles smashing to the floor around them and dust raining from the ceiling. It triggers harsh memories of another incident in an old house in Hugoton and Dean skids down next to the angel before he'd even realised he was running. Carefully stepping around the splayed wings, Sam reaches them a moment later.

It takes a few seconds of gentle shaking on Dean’s part before that blue refocuses; Castiel blinks dazedly up at him for a moment, a trail of blood running down his face and matting his hair, but he stiffly sits up without the look of someone who should have just had their spine shattered. Raphael himself, dressed in a sleek black suit, glares over at them from the altar. Without a word of greeting, rude bastard, his sword drops into his hand. The Seraph, panting quietly, has a blue fire blazing in his eyes, utter hatred for the archangel radiating from him. It's a shock for Dean, he knew Castiel had been going against the asshole. But this is about as personal as it gets for someone. Castiel wants this asshole _dead_ , wants it with everything he is.

And that's not what Castiel is supposed to _be_. How many signs has Dean had that the Seraph was losing himself in this? He's seen what desperate people are capable of. And the desperation in Castiel's eyes is terrifying. Something heavy fills the hunter's chest. They were supposed to look after each other. Where the hell has Dean been for this? He’s spent the past two weeks before the international road trip bitching and whining about the Seraph being grounded, about knowing he’d have to find it within himself to take on the damned archangels again. Castiel’s been fighting this war for months, and he’s never bitched about it once.

It doesn't seem to matter anymore, anyway. Raphael takes another step forwards just as the Seraph makes his feet. It’s too late to be fixed, there’s murder in his angel’s eyes and it’s mirrored in the asshole across the room. Dean’s had two weeks to get on this, it’s way too late now. Sam was right back at the _Red Roof Inn_ , he was being selfish.

This is fucking stupid. Castiel is waiting to strike, and Raphael will kill him on the spot without any effort at all. They all know it. But the angel will do it anyway, because he's desperate, and angry, and the brothers are completely outmatched.

The air crackles with static, Castiel's wings are now a strange dapple grey, coated in dust and grime, some feathers twisted and even a few smaller downy ones snapped; but they rise threateningly all the same, flaring outwards, the leading edges gleaming like diamond edged blades.

“Enough, Raph.” Gabriel says suddenly, his voice echoing solemnly around the cold, dank space. Forgotten in the commotion. The younger archangel has been watching, looking for a glimpse of his older brother under all of that pride and greed. “Enough.”

Surprise lights up the older archangel's dark eyes. The heavy gaze tracking the movement as Gabriel waltzes between the two opposing groups. There's an awful silence. Gabriel is stiff, there's no façade around his eyes. There's no regret, or imploring in his stance. He's just waiting, waiting for the verdict the other archangel will deliver for himself.

Raphael's eyes have turned evaluating, scouring the other archangel, both outside and further in. A dark smile leaks across his lips. Gabriel's shoulders fall.

“Gabriel. I must admit that when I felt your return, I was sure that you would actually _come back_. Instead, look at you. Skulking around with the human creatures. Damaged. I'd feared our father wasn't dead after all. That you're like this proves he is gone.”

Gabriel shakes his head, eyes flickering down to the sword Raphael still has drawn. “You know Dad, teaching people lessons... runs in the family. Living down here with the _human creatures_ might do you some good, brother.”

Raphael's eyes narrow into a disgusted scowl. “Ah, yes. Little brother now follows _them_ , the lesser Gods. They have no place in our paradise. They shall be wiped out. _All_ of them.” He says it like he _knows_ something, twisting it around like a taunt to the younger archangel, a threat in more ways than one. Dean has no idea what he’s talking about.

An unsettling stillness falls over Gabriel, the older Winchester has always kind of wondered what the former Trickster would do if he was pushed too far, he gets the impression he might be about to find out.

Beside his brother and Castiel, Sam's face drops like a stone. “Oh my God.” He mutters quietly.

Dean scowls, he’s always the last one to know anything. “What?” he whispers nervously, one hand clenching in Castiel's coat sleeve to try and stop the idiot from doing something stupid. Not that Dean would be able to actually stop him if he really wanted to go; you can put reins on a horse, but if wants to go one way and you another, the horse is going to win.

Sam's face has gone a little white. “Norse mythology, Dean. I'd just thought it was lore getting it wrong.”

The older hunter sighs thickly. “You know how I feel about assumptions that I've read your books, Sammy.”

“ _Fenris,_ Dean” His brother insists quietly, like that’s supposed to mean anything.

The word is vaguely familiar and all Dean can do is shrug loosely.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Son of _Loki_ , Dean. According to the lore, he has several kids, all considered lesser Gods in their own right.”

Dean frowns, shrugging again in confusion until his eyes snap back up to the forced calm falling around the younger archangel. Hesitating, Dean shakes his head. “No way, Sam. That’s gotta be lore’s equivalent of a screwed up Chinese Whispers.”

Sam's flat look matches how Dean really feels about that sentence. There’s a whole lot of personal in Gabriel's face. But Dean can't tell if Raphael is just blindly threatening the other Gods because he only knows Gabriel was hiding as a Pagan, or if he _knows_. Either way, Gabriel's head comes up without the concern on his face that the Winchesters had half been expecting. There are almost as many walls in that midget’s eyes as there are in Dean’s, and the hunters can see every single one firmly in place again.

“So, that's it then, Raphie?” Gabriel starts, ignoring the threat, a spring back in his step and spinning on the spot. “ _Dad's gone on holiday, Luci and Mikey failed. I want the world_? Is that it?”

Scowling, the air in the room seems to tremble with Raphael's voice. “We are going to paradise, brother. You have no right to speak of family. You abandoned us millennia ago. Isn't that right, Castiel?” He spits harshly and Castiel tenses under Dean's hand at being thrown back into the spotlight. “Between us, Gabriel has done more harm to our family than me, Castiel. If there is anyone here that you should be trying to kill...”

“ _Shut up, Raphael!_ ” Castiel barks suddenly, blue eyes blazing hatefully. Dean's grip tightens, and by some miracle, Castiel doesn't tug away. “Yes, he left!” Both archangel's look a bit surprised at the outburst, which makes Dean feel a bit better about feeling the same way; out of all of them, only Gabriel looks pained. “But,” The Seraph adds blackly, “I don't blame him for it. It was _Hell_ in Heaven with the fighting between Michael and Lucifer. Gabriel left us behind. But we only missed his presence because he had been there in the first place.” The grating snap of his tone is rattling the teeth in Dean's head, angelic voice barely contained, “where were _you_ , Raphael?”

And that's it. That's the whole point. Why Castiel's so angry; why this means so much. This isn't just a plot to kill everything that doesn't count as angelic in Raphael's stone cold eyes, it's the tail end of an argument that's been going on since before there was barely an Earth to fight over. A family at war, one so big it's spanning four dimensions and threatening everything they all know.

And Dean _gets_ Gabriel. Poor bastard had been like the middle child, torn in two ways and not winning on either front. Spending years trying to stop the fighting of his older brothers, all the while protecting the younger ones. It shouldn't have been his job. Raphael was right there the entire time. They might not have been enough to stop Michael and Lucifer clashing, but together they would have been enough to protect their younger siblings.

But Raphael said no. And God was a no show.

That kind of pressure must have been crushing. Castiel had told him before that the archangel was often injured stopping the fighting from spreading to the other younger angels, and one day it had just become too much to deal with anymore.

_But watch my brothers turn on each other? I couldn't bare it!_

Maybe Dean had got him wrong the first time. Maybe it wasn't that he was too scared to stand up to his family. It was just that he wasn't strong enough for it anymore. And the Winchesters had gotten him killed for it.

Gabriel is staring at his younger brother with sad gratitude. How long has he been waiting to hear that? Dean wonders absently. It isn't forgiveness that Castiel has thrown as a lifeline. It’s understanding. And maybe that’s more important.

The ground trembles when Raphael takes a step forwards, the murder in his eyes aimed firmly at the Seraph. Castiel shifts, bringing his left wing around Sam and drawing him closer to his side, the blades of his wing spreading out in an impenetrable shield. He does the same to Dean with his right, though the hunter refuses to relinquish his grip on his upper arm.

Normally, the Winchesters would be hissing out spiteful curses that they are _hunters,_ they don't need mollycoddling. But that is an _archangel_ with death in it's eyes and insane rage in it's heart.

Both Winchesters crowd a little closer to the graceful creature shielding them

Gabriel plants himself more firmly in the line of fire even though they all know that he has even less chance than Castiel does. “I'm asking you Raphael, please brother. Don't make me do this. There's no _need_ to fight anymore.”

The taller archangel sneers. “Is that what you said to Lucifer before he stabbed you?”

The plea in Gabriel's amber eyes turns into golden stone. “Actually, it's what he said to me.” He answers coldly. Dean's heard Gabriel say a lot of things through façades and jokes. But he's never been _cold_ before.

The blade in Raphael's hands glints in the sharp, glaring white wall lights as he adjusts it in his hand and suddenly he launches himself forwards. Gabriel's own sword drops into his hand and he just barely gets it up in time to parry the other archangel. The room rattles with the force, sparks showering from the grinding celestial metal and lighting up the floor.

Gabriel doesn't stand a chance. Parrying the attack only gives him half a second before Raphael brings up his other hands and grabs the younger archangel by the collar. Digging his heels in, the whiskey eyed angel tries to hold his ground, but his older brother is much too strong. There is one dizzying moment of being airborne without his consent, before his skull cracks back against the tiled wall hard enough to shatter the tiles. He crumples bonelessly to the floor.

Castiel rips out of Dean's hold, The Seraph’s not close enough to parry the down strike at Gabriel's back, but his left wing snaps out over Sam and the blades of his wing tips divert Raphael's strike, the blade stabbing deeply into the wall. Dean staggers out of the way and the Seraph doesn't hesitate, slamming one foot down hard enough to make the hunters stumble, he spins sharply, his right wing's razor feathers racing around to Raphael's chest.

Raphael frees his blade, but not quite fast enough to block the Seraph's sweep. Castiel's not strong enough yet to take him off his feet without the element of surprise, but it gives the archangel cause for stumble.

A burning white light scalds to life in the archangel's pupils and Dean's heart sinks to somewhere around his shoes. There's s fierce gust of wind, Raphael flickering from sight and back into Castiel's personal space, the Seraph goes on the defence, but Raphael gets there first, driving his fist into younger brother’s stomach and slamming the hilt of his sword across his temple as he buckles. Growling, Raphael grabs his throat before he can drop completely, he turns on the spot and throws the angel like a rag doll at the two hunters. The trio go down in a tangle of limbs and profanity.

Dazed, the weight on his back pulls Dean back to himself. Violent coughing breaks out from his right somewhere above him and the hunter forces himself to sit up, a black wing sliding from his back as he does so. “Sam?” He barks out quickly, relieved when the other Winchester un-buries himself from the other black wing.

A low rumble breaks out, echoing thickly around the room, bouncing off the walls like the building is alive.

“ _Ianua Magna Purgatorii_

_Clausa Est Ob Nos_

_Lumine Euius Ab Oculis_

_Nostris Retento ”_

Sam winces, scrambling for Ithuriel's angelic blade. Dean turns, reaching out to the choking Seraph at his back. “Cas? You okay, man?” The angel is sprawled on his side, wing trapped beneath him and over him and he is one tangle of limbs. Despite the blood now flowing in earnest from his head, the angel groggily blinks open blue eyes and achingly props himself up. “Atta boy, Cas.”

“ _Sed Nunc Stamus Ad Limen Huius_

_Ianuae Magnae Et Demisse_

_Fideliter Perhonorifice_

_Paramus Aperire Eam”_

Sam grimaces and climbs to his feet, helping up first Dean, and then the angel in turn. Castiel takes two long strides to Gabriel and nearly falls on his face next to him when he kneels down beside him and is struck by a crash of light-headedness. Sam's quick hand steadies his shoulder, and the angel carefully checks his older brother over. Ignoring the blood staining his brother's forehead in a grim mirror of his own, Castiel shakes his shoulder firmly, relief drooping his wings when the archangel stirs. 

“ _Creaturae Terrificae Quarum Ungulae_

_Et Dentes Nunquam Tetigerunt_

_Carnem Humanam Aperit Fauces_

_Eius Ad Mundum Nostrum Nunc_

_Ianua Magna_

_Aperta Tandem!”_

The archangel's golden eyes focus on their surroundings just in time to see Raphael complete the ritual, triumphant victory written in the proud stance of his shoulders.

Nobody breathes as the symbol erupts into light, the centre opening and the glare swallowing the rest of the symbols in a chilling repeat of the final seal setting Lucifer free. It ignites the room, paralysing the four onlookers. It's all over.

Raphael's done it.

They’ve failed.

Except, suddenly. They haven’t.

The roar of the door opening engulfs the quiet sound of wing beats and no one hears the arrival until something barrels into Raphael just as he's reaching for the light bulging within. It takes the archangel completely off guard, the newcomer sweeping him off his feet and he lands across the other side of the room.

And then there's someone in Castiel's personal space.

“ _Balthazar._ ” Castiel sighs with relief, “It is _good_ to see you, brother.”

The British angel grins cheekily, nudging his brother playfully. “Anything for you, Cassie darling.” The lighter blue eyes of the new arrival then catches sight of Gabriel and Balthazar shoots out his hand to pull his older brother upright. “Gabriel! I thought I told you to be careful.”

Gabriel grins through bloodied teeth, accepting Balthazar's hand to stand up, wavering on his feet. “Well, you know me, Balthy...” He winces heavily. “Never a dull moment.”

Dude, we don't have time for this!” Dean snaps, pointing at the portal wildly.

There's no time to reply, Castiel tenses beside him and jumps forwards, catching Raphael's sudden surprise strike against his own, there's no hesitation this time. The archangel twists the blade violently, shoving backwards. The blade is raised again and Castiel doesn't realise until he's bringing his own back up that _Sam_ is the actual target, not quite noticing how far the archangel had shoved him back. The Seraph doesn't have time to block it properly, twisting an awkward step to the side and barely catching the blade on his.

It grates nosily against his own, delaying it just enough to get between the archangel and the younger Winchester properly and shove the surprised hunter backwards with his left wing. Raphael’s sword slides past his with too much force to stop; it buries to the hilt in the top of Castiel's left shoulder. Blazing pain ignites like white fire, scalding electric spreading from his fingertips up through his chest. If he'd been holding his sword in that hand he doubts that he could have kept hold of it.

Dean barely even sees what happens, one moment Castiel is blocking the archangel and the next Sammy's getting batted away he’s made of paper and there's a blood coated point of silver through the back of Castiel's coat.

White light floods out immediately, a barely smothered choke of pain ripping from the angel's throat. Then Castiel plants his feet, twists off the blade and swipes at the archangel's throat with his own. His left hand hanging limply at his side.

Raphael's grim scowl darkens that he's missed a kill shot and snatches Castiel's working wrist mid strike. Snarling, the archangel clamps his hand over the stab wound through the angel's shoulder and digs his fingers in.

The Seraph's vision fills with flashing, confusing spots, the edges of his sight darkening. The _pain_ punches all the borrowed breath of his lungs, the dizzying agony ripping through him, his legs shaking with the force of it. He pulls desperately against the other angel's hold, groaning thickly, his wings snap out instinctively and whip round.

Gunshots rip through the noise and confusion. Each bullet burrowing into the borrowed archangel's skin. Raphael's eyes fix on Dean and Sam and the wild looks in their eyes. It's all the distraction Balthazar needs to drive his blade through the back of Raphael's throat and Gabriel to rip his baby brother out of his claws.

“ _Enough!”_ The enraged older archangel roars, voice ringing louder than the din of the portal and the noise bellows around the room. With a single gesture, all of them go flying, crashing painfully down with bone rattling force against the filthy, unforgiving concrete. Breathing space acquired, Raphael grabs Balthazar by the throat and pins him hard against the wall. The angel struggles, but his blade is firmly buried in Raphael's neck and if that didn't do anything to harm him, then it's not going to work at all anywhere else.

With a blank expression, the archangel raises his sword. “There _will_ be paradise on Earth.”

The point of a blade blazes like a star even against the blinding portal, the weapon whipping down like a viper strike. Castiel drives the Holy Lance through the archangel's shoulder.

Howling with rage and pain, the archangel grips the shaft of the weapon and yanks wildly. Castiel's shot had missed his heart, the Seraph's vision tilting from forcing both hands to bare it long enough to strike the insane archangel down. With a sickening squelch, the weapon is ripped from Raphael's chest, dropping to the ground with a ringing _clang_ against the concrete. Blood dripping passively from the blade. Clawing at the holy light flooding from his chest, utter rage completely consumes all rational thoughts in the crazed celestial’s head.

There's barely time to draw a breath, the archangel is coiled like a spring, electric flaring out and shattering the garish lamps around the room. Only the supernatural light blazing from the portal and the holy shine surrounding Raphael illuminates the room. The raw, instinctual blood lust of Raphael's' dark eyes fall on to Castiel, who raises his blade stubbornly against the hurricane facing him.

Then Raphael attacks. There's a cry of protest from Dean across the room that's lost in the sound of another pillar being smashed. The hunter had never even seen Raphael move towards the Seraph. The cloud of dust hides the pair for a terrifying moment, before it thins and they catch sight of the archangel slamming the Seraph back against the rubble pile that had once been solid cement. The long, dark fingers of Raphael's right hand are wrapped around Castiel's throat and the other is gripping his injured shoulder like cast iron. Struggling feebly, Castiel's huge wings snap up, the right coming up to slash the archangel's unguarded side. Raphael's gaze narrows, mouth twisting upwards viciously, and slams his foot down on the limb before it can strike him.

A sharp cry of pain shoots passed Castiel's lips before he can do anything to stop it. Agonised from his shoulder and trapped by his wing, Raphael leans cruelly and forces the Seraph's shoulders down against the jagged pieces of rubble. The blunt edges dig in atrociously to his back and wings and holy shit _he's going to smash his back to pieces._ There's nothing Castiel can do to stop it, he's biting through his lip to choke back the screams. The bones in his wings creak under the strain, constant bolts of lightning racking him completely, it's horrendous, each moment lasting life times of unbearable pain. Raphael presses harder and Castiel's Grace ignites with the torture. Breath is punched from his lungs and there's so much pain the angel can't tell if it's because he's been struck or just from the Raphael’s grip. He can't breathe, gasping harshly, no air hits his lungs. They burn hotly, scalding his chest and adding to the misery. His vision fades, going black at the edges and blurry. He feels sick, and dizzy and heavy. And then he can't really feel anything but all-encompassing _pain_.

It only takes a few moments for Dean to cover the distance to the pinned Seraph, but it's more than enough time for those clear blue eyes, buried under the haze of agony, to glaze over and start to roll back. Fury explodes in the hunter's chest, Castiel is Dean's _family_ and _nobody_ fucking touches Dean's family. The archangel is too involved in breaking his little brother to pieces to notice a mere human hunter, and he doesn't react until the Winchester swings a rusty iron bar he'd hastily grabbed from the floor and smashes it against the archangel's fucking skull.

White streaked, dark brown eyes barely slide in Dean’s direction, but his eyebrows furrow and the older Winchester finds himself batted off his feet like an insect. The ground makes a solid return moments later and utterly winds him. Struggling, there's another sharp cry of agony from Castiel, Raphael's blood soaked fingers digging deeper and pressing harder. Sam takes the next shot, with the Lance that was left discarded on the floor held tightly in his hands.

 _That_ draws Raphael's attention and Dean's heart leaps to his mouth at the murder he sees in the archangel's glower. Sam falters too, but as Raphael starts to turn to tear him to shreds, there's a shock of enraged golden amber.

Gabriel drives his archangel sword through Raphael’s chest.

There's a stunned lack of movement, the howl of the portal a constant roaring background noise. Raphael's eyes have gone huge and confused.

“I'm sorry, brother.” Gabriel murmurs softly, the words pained and quiet, yet echo louder than they have any right to. Then, with a sharp twist, the youngest archangel throws his older brother through the gaping portal still bellowing its presence. Balthazar flips the altar over half a second later and the portal smashes shut, a vacuum of utter silence left behind in the dark.

It lasts a few moments, panting the only noise, before Balthazar claps and all the shattered lights on the walls are somehow whole and working.

And then it's all over.

–


	21. Homeward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's been waiting for the end for so long now; he's forgotten what not having a common enemy anymore will cost him.

There's a beat of beautiful silence in the suffocating aftermath. As if not one of them dares to move in case everything turns out to be some fucked up shared dream, some Djinn gone nuts inside their heads.

Then there's a soft groan across from Dean, mingling in with heaving pants and coughs as the dust settles around them. “Cas?” The hunter calls tiredly, staggering to his feet. It’s damn dark in this freezing cold basement now that the portals closed, but there’s just about enough light that Dean catches Sam's eye as he stands, and a nod between them has Dean relax a little. His brother is _fine_. Castiel is right where Raphael left him, his coat and the tight dark blue V-neck are torn down his collar and over his left shoulder. Blood has dyed the fabrics almost black, giving a sharp contrast to the Grace still flooding from the wound, the brightest source of light still in the room. There’s more of it running from the earlier cut across his temple, a stark red line bleeding down to his chin. His eyes are shut.

Kneeling carefully, Dean tries to ignore the shifting stones under his feet like loose shingle, and gently shakes the injured Seraph. The wings are spread across the floor haphazardly, but Dean can't see any blood or bone or Grace leaking out from anywhere other than his shoulder. He doesn’t doubt they’ll be bruised to hell, but that’s so much better than broken. “Cas? Hey, C'mon, Castiel. Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”

Scrunching his forehead, there are a few exhausted blinks, blue flashing blearily beneath them, before Castiel can keep his eyes open long enough to let them focus. “ _Dean_.” He says with such powerful relief the hunter feels vaguely dizzy with it.

There's a snort from behind them before Balthazar kneels down as well on the angel’s other side, carefully sidestepping the spread black pinions. “We're here too, you know.” He scolds light-heartedly.

The corner of Castiel's lip curls up into a tired smile and a blaze of affection for the idiot heats Dean's chest from the inside out. The Seraph wearily lifts his right hand, Dean grabs it and carefully helps him sit up, the injured arm cradled with a careful gentleness against his chest. “Went the full three rounds didn't you, Rocky?” The hunter jibes lightly.

The Seraph tilts his head and winces sharply for the effort. “Don't-Don't understand, that. Dean.” He mumbles, screwing his eyes shut with the painful sensations.

Dean’s ebbing concern flares just a bit again. “Yeah, yeah. Don't hurt yourself. Jesus Christ, Cas.”

Gabriel achingly sits beside his winged sibling, carefully avoiding the enormous black limbs as they sorely pick themselves up and fold loosely, half trailing on the floor still. “Concussions aren't any fun, eh? Bro.” He adds dryly, waving absently at their matching blood trails leaking from their hair lines. “Then again, you have a hole, too.”

Sam rolls his eyes and returns with his duffel which he'd dropped on arrival, it takes some time to dig it out from under a pile of shattered filthy tiles. Digging for a moment, he pulls out the medical supplies he'd brought back in Kentucky and tosses a thick compression bandage at his older brother.

Dean takes an evaluating glance at Balthazar, taking in the way he’s glancing over Castiel for more injuries than the humans can see and nudges him. “Can't you stopper that hole, Zulu?” He asks eagerly, a pressure bandage will hurt like a bitch to use, and if he can avoid giving the Seraph any more grief today he’ll take it.

Rather than just chucking out no with his regular level of irritated scorn. Balthazar glares harder at the concussed Seraph opposite him. “Don't have the energy to stop it…” He answers after a few more moments, the older hunter barely restrains his need to hurry the posh angel along. “But I can help. May I, dear?” The angel tacks on, hands raised out to the stab wound through Castiel's shoulder. The wound is higher in his shoulder than the hook had been in Hugoton, piercing in just below his collar bone; Dean doesn’t doubt how much it hurts, but he also doesn’t think it’s hit his lung this time.

Castiel goes to nod but catches himself first. Instead he merely closes his eyes and lowers his head a little. Submission in a more subtle action, if not in words. A hiss breaks from him when the other angel presses down, but after a few moments, the pain tones down from blinding to a harsh constant ache; it’s still nasty, but at least it’s certainly more manageable. The other three watch carefully. This whole thing has only taken about twenty minutes, but it feels like this day has been dragging on for the past twenty years. Now that it’s finally all over, they're so tired that even facing standing up is a daunting prospect.

The glow of Balthazar's hands is somewhat muted compared to the flood that had been pouring from the angelic stab wound. But Castiel's brow loses some of the pained frown, and his breathing softens and settles a little back into a healthier rhythm. And Jesus, Dean didn't know how worried he'd been until this moment. A weight falls from his chest like an anvil.

It takes much longer than healing the Winchesters would have done. But even so, Balthazar can't heal most of it. “Sorry, Cassie. It's been a long day and your Grace can't handle me pulling at it anymore.”

The Seraph gives him one of those rare, small smiles that seems to light up his eyes to what should be an illegal shade of blue. “Thank you, brother.” Dean supposes that when you’re expecting nothing, even limited help is a welcome gift.

The angel gently pats Castiel's other shoulder, a strangely affectionate gesture compared to what Dean's used to from the winged dicks he doesn't know that well. But, the hunter can't begrudge Castiel for it when the moron looks so damn pleased to just know that his brother is _alive_.

Standing stiffly, the blond angel shoots a look down at his other brother. “I'm sorry, Gabriel.” He says simply, tone earnest and quiet.

The archangel bows his head tiredly. “Last one left, Balthy.”

“What are you gonna do, Gabe?” Sam adds a moment later, sympathy in his eyes. God, Dean hopes he's not planning to tack Gabriel permanently to their little team. Sure, the guy's redeemed himself, hell Dean actually likes him. But he can't be stuck in a car with him eight hours a day. He'd kill himself. Just the few weeks together has given the hunter grey hairs.

Sighing, Gabriel rubs his aching skull. “If you thought upstairs was a mess before, just wait until they find out that Raphael's gone...” He pauses, breathing heavily for a moment, struggling to work around something burning in his chest like a wild fire. “I can't listen to the fighting anymore. I thought with the apocalypse going...Sure it'd be _bad,_ but at least It'd get better. Eventually.” He snorts. “Now look, no archangels, third of the host dead, no fledglings, no leaders...”

“Well,” Dean shrugs loosely, “got one archangel left.”

Those whiskey coloured eyes consider the hunter for a moment, trying to find a hidden slight. But Dean's as surprised as the rest of them to find that there's not one there. “It won't be easy, Deano.”

Sam snorted humourlessly. “Would it be our lives if it wasn't, Gabe?”

The archangel laughs quietly, wincing again at the protest of his skull. “Words of wisdom from the _Winchesters_ , freakin' Dad damn.”

“I'll come with you.” Balthazar declares suddenly, holding his hand down for the archangel to take, “But I have a condition.”

The archangel raises his eyebrows at him and grins. “Shoot, Balto.”

Balthazar's face scrunches up in distaste. “Two conditions,” He amends dryly. “One: never call me that again. Two: Shore leave, Gaby. I'm not going back up if I'm never going to be let out of the box again.”

Gabriel chortles. “Bro, if I thought I'd be stuck up there, _I'd_ never go back either.” With that, he took the proffered hand and stood. There’s a strange pause, the archangel turning back to look down at his younger brother, still sitting in that Castiel shaped crater, looking drained and battered but strangely content. “Castiel.” He starts fondly, tousling his little brother's hair, taking care to not hurt him. The squinted annoyed confusion he gets back makes him chuckle lightly. “Heaven needs its General back, Castiel.”

Dean freezes to the spot. Utterly blind-sided

Shit _. Shitshitshitshit_.

He sends a betrayed scowl to the back of the archangel's head. But this was always going to happen. E.T is _not_ the guy you make your best friend. _Everyone_ knows that. E.T goes home one day. But it was supposed to be _one day_. Not this one, not right now. Then his heart sinks somewhere south of his knees, guilt flooding his entire soul. Castiel has been separated from his family by abandonment and war for three years. Now he gets to go home, gets his family back. Dean should be happy for him and it kills him with guilt that he's fucking not. He's freaking furious.

Sam is wide-eyed and tense, just as surprised as his brother. But he's also got a small smile on his face, because Castiel is being given a choice, even if Dean doesn't want to see it. And Sam has a feeling it's the only one that Castiel's ever got to make entirely for himself.

Castiel's clear blue eyes stare up in mild confusion. He'd have tilted his head if his brain wasn't currently swelling up with concussion. “Gabriel. I forfeit that post the moment that Zephon nearly carved the wings from my back and I didn't return.”

Snorting, the archangel shakes his head. “You're a dumbass sometimes, you know that? Thought you were The Great Tactician?” The Seraph actually flushes a little at that. “Battle wounds don't mean dishonour, Bro. Quite the opposite actually. Dad, you of all people know that.”

The angel sighs softly, unused to having the weight of his friends’ eyes all over him like this for anything personal. Finally, he glances up at the two hunters, shifting his wings loosely across the floor under the pretence of trying to avoid stiffness. Sam gives him a reassuring smile, and Castiel is so unbelievably grateful in that moment that he'd managed to get the boy from Hell. The younger Winchester has far to a gentle heart to be anywhere but on Earth saving people.

Then he shifts his eyes to Dean. His face is blank, but there’s a devastation in those green eyes that can't fool Castiel. Walls go up even as Castiel is turning, and the Seraph locks gazes with him to stop it happening.

It's then that the hunter notices the ebony feather, dusty and ruffled, resting beside his fingertips. Dean's eyes find Castiel's again and for a moment, the angel doesn't think Dean will take the hint. But them, ever so slowly, he shifts his fingertips an inch to the left. A flood of bright, confusing, foreign emotions bleed into the angels strained Grace. It's hard to focus through so many when so battered. But some are stronger than ever. The brightest one of all, is a gleaming sense of being left behind.

Castiel swallows tightly, and pushes back. Flooding the hunter with reassurance and affection and warmth.

Dean sags where he sits.

“I'm needed down here, Gabriel.” He answers softly.

Gabriel immediately starts chuckling, the only thing containing his amusement being the own ache of his head. “Easy there, Blackbird. You _are_ Heaven's General, whether you want it or not. Angels up top have been chattering up a storm about you for the last five minutes alone. A lot of people thought you were dead...again.” Conflict blooms over Castiel's face, torn between two families. Gabriel takes pity. “Relax, Cassie. I was joking, Earth is supposed to be watched over. But we're gonna be busy on our own front for a while. We're gonna need someone down here keeping an eye on things.”

“You gonna be hanging around, Cas?” Dean asks, tone dry and lazy. His eyes are eager and simultaneously wary.

Castiel sends the Winchesters a small, tentative smile. “If you'll agree to it.”

Sam grins lightly. “Honorary member, remember?” Before Hell, this would have been difficult for Sam to deal with. It was supposed to be Sam and Dean against the world. There wasn't any room for a rogue Seraph and its misplaced loyalties. But this angel single handedly revived Dean, turned against Heaven, died to try and stop the last seal breaking, protected them, died again for them. _Pulled Sam out of Hell_. Castiel is Dean's best friend, sending him away because Sam can't man up and handle change would tear at his brother. There's no doubt he'd choose Sam. But there's no way that Sam will place him in that situation. Besides. Castiel is Sam's friend too.

Dean chortles. “Team Free Will, kicking ass and taking names.”

Balthazar rolls his eyes. “Gabriel that was actually nauseatingly _painful_ to watch.” He groans lowly. Gabriel nods in vague agreement.

“Now, kiddies. Cassie, you know as well as I do that that wall won't hold Raphael in forever. He's going to break out, and I expect demons will take advantage of the lack of aerial supervision for a while. Might drop you a mission or two along the way.” The archangel warns playfully, “Besides, can't have a Seraph getting bored on Earth.”

Clapping the Winchesters on the back, the archangel gives them both a wide grin. “Well, it's been fun boys. Driving across the States, holiday in Europe, actually being alive. Not being tortured in Hell or Heaven...” His voice is wobbling with dramatic flair.

Dean rolls his eyes and shoves him off of his shoulder. “All right, all right. You're welcome you pain in the ass. Get the hell off me.” The Winchester's both snicker when the archangel falters a little at the lack of balance.

“Anyway, see ya later boys.” Gabriel adds with a small flamboyant wave.

The older Winchester catches a strange look on his face as he does it. There's a weird fondness in those amber eyes that wasn't there before and Dean realises that Gabriel's actually a little disappointed to be leaving. “Check in now and then, you damn moron.” Dean snaps out suddenly, scowling at the way Balthazar grins like a snake spotting an elderly mouse. “If you die again, it's really gonna fuck up our hunting schedule.”

A wry grin spreads over the archangel's face, and he nods at the trio. “That was beautiful, Deano.”

Scowling, Dean brandishes a piece of concrete menacingly. “Bite me, asshole.”

“You know that makes me one of your little team, right?” Gabriel butts in with, smirking triumphantly as Dean's frown of confusion blooms into disgust.

“In your filthy freakin' dreams, you sugar loving creep!” But it's too late, the other two angels are gone.

A smooth silence permeates the air for a minute or two. Sam's still sniggering silently to himself and Dean can't tell if he's nauseous or not at the thought of Gabriel being around some more.

Castiel sighs softly, breaking the silence. “I'm afraid Gabriel is right, Dean. Uzziel too.”

The shade of red that Dean's face turns, Sam later swears, was a beautiful thing to witness.

 

_**~Fin~** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished! I know I was a bit rubbish with the timings in the last few chapters but I’m pretty sure none of you would really be interested in why, just know that I’m sorry for it and I’m super grateful to all of you who read this story and kept me going! :) 
> 
> Also: I am four chapters into the sequel to this. And I might try and post a chapter up a week starting very soon. :)


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